The Death of a King

king, Chandos and the prince seated themselves on overturned trunks. Chandos and the prince conferred quietly with one another while Edward smiled coldly at me.
    “Well, Master Clerk,” he rasped, “your report.”
    I cleared my throat and gave a conventional account of my work so far, omitting any reference to my correspondence with Tweng, my work at Gloucester and, of course, my burglary of the secret seal records. The king heard me out, looked at me quizzically and then shouted, “Guard!”
    I really did begin to tremble, wondering if a full confession or a plea for mercy would help. The tent flap was opened but the king simply informed the guard to summon the prince’s tutor, Sir William Harcourt. The latter must have been waiting outside, as he had pushed his bulk into the tent before I had time to compose either a question or a plea. He was a balding, bland-faced, stout man, but his reputation as a strategist and warrior belied his grossness. He made an ideal tutor and bodyguard for the prince.
    “Sir William,” the king barked affectionately, “may I present Edmund Beche, a deserter. In the coming battle, you and my son are to lead the vanguard. I want this coward put in the forefront of that vanguard. Do you understand? Then take him away.”
    Before I could protest, Sir William’s iron grasp shoved me out of the tent. I turned to explain but Sir William’s look of contempt killed any hope of being understood. He led me back through the lines up to the top of the ridge where companies of archers were lounging around camp-fires, eating, praying or joking, according to their whim. Sir William told them to watch me and stamped away. After a while, he returned with a conical helmet, a quiver of arrows, a long yew bow and a jacket of boiled leather, together with a belt and a sharp stabbing sword.
    “Master Coward,” he said, “wear these. If the French attack tomorrow, you will be one of the first to see them. If you die, good riddance, but if you live, then one of these master bowmen has orders to kill you.” He began to walk away but then turned back. “Oh, Master Coward,” he added, “the same bowman has archers to watch you with orders to kill you if you try to desert again. Even if you do, the French are all over the place and they’re taking no prisoners.” He looked at me, shrugged philosophically and waddled back down the ridge towards the main camp.
    My arrival had caused little stir among the archers; dressed in dusty travelling clothes, I looked little different from them. Once I had fitted on both jacket and belt and gathered up the rest of my armour, I virtually became one of them. I felt too sick to join any group and slumped wearily to the ground, not caring to search out my would-be assassin. He could have been any one of the countless archers surrounding me. I huddled in my cloak, tired and angry at being so cleverly tricked by the king. If Edward had executed me or had me secretly murdered, questions might have been asked, but now my death could be easily explained. To my friends (even to you, Richard), I would appear a brave man who had been caught up with the king at Crécy, volunteered to fight in the front line where, unfortunately, I was killed. On the other hand, to men like Harcourt, I was just another coward going to meet his just reward. I realized that there was little hope for me. I had served in campaigns before and, like all Londoners, I had obeyed the statute which laid down that every able man was to practise regularly with the bow. Nevertheless, if the great French army decided to spare me, then the unknown master bowman would carry out his orders. How I escaped my expected death is a miracle and the reason for this detailed letter.
    At dawn, the camp was roused. I got up, refreshed after a few hours sleep, collected my weapons and ambled towards one of the communal cooking-pots for a lump of black bread, a bowl of messy oatmeal and a cup of watered ale. A slight mist hung over the dew-wet grass and we had to breakfast under cloudly skies. The common opinion was that it would rain and the French would hardly attack. The marshals ignored such prophecies and began to order us into lines, so we moved over the ridge and half-way down the hill. A period of utter chaos reigned and after a great deal of shuffling backwards and forwards I realized that the archers had been formed into a series of hollow edges of arrow-head formations across the muddy hillside. It was a