The Death of a King

chest of one, while I backed and parried a blow from the other. The stricken man knelt gurgling as if he was making some obscene prayer and then fell flat on his face. His companion and I circled, looking for an opening. I am an indifferent swordsman but, Deo gratias, so was he, although he still had a dagger which gave him the advantage. We met, clashed, fended and parried until the sweat poured down my body. Then it was over, like many such sword fights, not with a classic stroke, but a silly mistake. My opponent slipped on some dirt, scrabbled to maintain his balance and rolled clean on to his own dagger. He died as quickly as his companion while I leaned against a door to steady myself. I realized that the message had been a trick and cursed Isabella with every filthy epithet I could think of before turning back towards the river.
    The church bells told me it was past compline as I made my way from the dark wharf to my lodgings. I got no further than half-way down Bread Street before I was surrounded by mailed men-at-arms. Some carried flickering torches but their faces were hid behind coifs and basinets. They detached themselves from dark narrow alleys and doorways and stood round me, as I tried to control my fears and adopt some pathetic defensive posture. Then one of them moved out of the shadows. I noticed that he wore the royal arms of England across his tabard and, as he moved into the pool of torchlight, he removed his helmet. I was expecting Sir John Chandos but this individual was a round-faced lad with the bland looks of an intelligent plough-boy. He spoke with a thick Yorkshire burr, introducing himself as Sir Edmund Ward. He showed me a royal writ ordering him to take me (by force if necessary) to join the king in France. Too surprised to argue, I asked if I could gather certain belongings from my lodgings but he merely smiled and shook his head. He snapped his fingers, as a signal to the escort to follow, and led me through an alleyway into the next street where two more men-at-arms stood guarding a line of horses. The clatter and the din of the escort woke up the whole street. Windows were flung open and the citizens thoroughly enjoyed themselves, shouting abuse at the oblivious soldiery. I was unceremoniously pushed on to one of the horses, the guard then mounted and galloped furiously along the narrow cobbled streets, not easing their pace till we were through the city gates. Once we were in the country, on the road south (I guessed) to one of the Cinque Ports, we left the beaten track to camp in a freshly harvested field. No fire was lit, the soldiers drank from waterskins and ate strips of dry cooked meat. They then muffled themselves in their great cloaks and lay down to sleep. Sir Edmund offered me food. I curtly refused though I did drink a pannikin of water and took a thick serge cloak to keep me warm while I slept.
    The sharp stubble and my own anxiety ensured a sleepless night. I lay looking up at the sky, listening to the guards patrolling the horse-lines or the small shrill cries of the night creatures. I realized that my escort were not city bully-boys but professional soldiers, hardened campaigners who offered little hope of escape. I knew we were for France, probably Normandy, where the king was said to be launching a major offensive against the French. But why was I going? To be questioned or to be killed? The possibility that it could be both gave me little comfort. I wondered why the king wanted me so badly. My burglary of the secret seal records could not have been discovered so soon. But Edward, like his “dear mother” might have learnt from some source or other that my search was now pursuing a totally unexpected and very dangerous course. What or who this source was did not concern me; I spent my energies on concentrating on how to avoid the dire consequences of my coming meeting with the king. I did not intend to reveal that you, dear Richard, knew all but I hoped that if I died or disappeared, you would do something to vindicate my name.
    Of course, I failed to reach a conclusion either that night or the following two days as we continued our rapid progress to the coast. I also realized that my professional escort made escape impossible. We travelled by day and camped in the open at night. Sir Edmund always ensured that I was well guarded. We rode clear of villages and inns, only stopping to buy provisions, fill the waterskins or forage for provender for the horses.