The Death of a King

not taking me into his confidence.
    The answer I received was stark and brutal. His Grace informed me that Teloy was mistaken on all points. Moreover, he was a disreputable agent, for the king had learnt that he had recently been killed in a drunken tavern brawl with some Hainaulters. I was then ordered to relinquish my task, resign my office of sheriff and assume the custody of Norham Castle. Norham! A bleak, God-forsaken spot on the Scottish March! A prince’s reward for a faithful, dutiful servant. He is a worse despot than his father ever was and cunning with it. Ever since Guerney’s death, I have suspected that there is something mysterious and terrible about the death of the old king at Berkeley. Teloy’s report and subsequent murder—for murder it undoubtedly was—proves that.
    I write to you as a bewildered old man, Master Beche. Be very wary in the task the king has assigned you. May God reward you better than he has done me. Written in haste at Taunton, 29 July, 1346.
    Poor Sir Thomas. I have a strange feeling that if he ever reaches Norham alive, he will never live the year out. His letter was valuable. It underlines the seriousness of my own position. My burglary of the Secret Seal room would soon be discovered and the king may even know that Tweng had written to me. I began to make immediate preparations for my departure, selling all my moveables and trying to secure passage on a ship bound for an Italian port.
    One evening after a last visit to Kate’s grave, I arrived back at my lodgings to find a filthy urchin crouching outside on the cobbles. He babbled incoherently at me, thrust a grubby piece of parchment into my hand and slipped quietly away. I unrolled the scrap and read in a scrawled hand, “Edward II. In the Kirtle at Southwark. Immediately.” I quickly gathered a sword, dagger and cloak from my lodgings and headed for the river bank.
    While a powerful wherryman raced his little craft across the choppy Thames, I clutched my sword and wondered who had really sent the message. Southwark at night is London’s answer to hell and the Kirtle Tavern has a worse reputation than the Devil himself. The wherryman must have thought I was going to visit one of the notorious brothels there. He refused to let me land until he had regaled me with advice, telling me I would get my money’s worth at the Mitre, where the bawds rutted like stoats for a penny and would do anything for two. I smiled bleakly, thanked him and headed into the warren of alley-ways which ran down to the riverside. It was dark and if the rest of the city is thronged and busy during the day, then Southwark comes alive at night. Cut-throats, pick-pockets, pimps, vagabonds and outlaws roam the alleys like wolves looking for prey amongst the weak and unarmed. The streets, cluttered with filth of every kind, reek with the rot and decay of an uncleared battlefield. As I moved deeper into the darkness, the shadows which emerged from doorways slunk back as they saw the naked sword I carried. I moved forward briskly but carefully, quite aware that one stumble would bring the shadows back again. I left the riverside and the darkness became broken with the lights and noise of ale-houses and brothels. At last, I found the Kirtle, a small dingy tavern with narrow slit windows out of which poured the sound of violent roistering.
    I paused, wondering whether to go in, when a hand on my elbow made me turn. She was old and bent. “A penny, sir,” she hissed. “A penny and I’ll tell your fortune.” She pushed her face closer and I pitied the criss-cross lines on her face. Revolted by the smell from her blackened teeth. I dug into my purse and passed her a coin. She took it, her narrow eyes glittering with pleasure. As I turned back to the tavern door, she whispered, “Your future’s behind you, Master.”
    I turned while she scurried back into the darkness. Two muffled figures, cloaked and armed with sword and dagger, stepped from the shadows. They approached slowly at a half-crouch, separating as they drew nearer.
    “What do you want?” I called, biding for time.
    The figures shuffled. “Hand over your sword,” one of them rasped. “Our mistress would like to see you again, Master Clerk.”
    I realized that he meant Isabella and I knew these were her messengers and my executioners. I let my arms drop to my side. Both drew closer. When they were within striking distance, I suddenly brought up my dagger and sent it hurtling into the