The Death of a King

Venetian galley, which took him to Venice. He then travelled south to Rome. That had been five years ago and Roger had survived through casual employment and nimble wits. He knew a great deal about the English exiles in Rome. I exhausted him with my questions but learnt nothing. He never asked the reason for my interrogation; he seemed more than content with my company and attention.
    I was coming to the end of my stay in Rome when late one afternoon I joined Harnett in a tavern near one of the city gates, the heat was always intense and the dark coolness of the tavern was a constant refuge despite its dirt, rancid smell and myriad horde of flies and cats. It was also frequented by sailors from every nation and so my English tongue and attempts at broken Italian went unnoticed. Harnett, as usual, was in the corner watching the door. He watched me come in and then languidly waved me to a seat. He snapped his fingers and rattled off an order to a greasy slattern, who slammed two cups of wine on to the table and then grabbed the coins I offered. Harnett watched her move away and then leaned across.
    “Do not turn round, but you are being followed.” Naturally I turned immediately and noticed that a small fat man had followed me in. He was balding and red-faced with the impish look of a wizened monkey. He seemed unperturbed by my glare and stared coolly at me. I turned back to Harnett.
    “How did you know?” I asked.
    Harnett shrugged. “I have noticed him on the last two occasions.” He tapped the side of his pock-marked nose and said, “Be careful! Be careful!”
    I shrugged and went back to my drink. I knew that Edward III could not possibly have found my trail. Moreover, the man did not look English and seemed to pose no threat. I decided to ignore him for the while and wait for the evening to cool by listening to Harnett’s chatter. The bells of a nearby church were tolling for evening prayer when Harnett and I rose unsteadily to our feet and left the tavern. The stranger had gone and I wondered if he had only been the result of Harnett’s suspicious imagination. I remember that the evening air was cool and welcome despite the fetid smells of the alley-way. Harnett was singing some song, a lullaby from pleasanter days. He was still singing when the attack came. Three men came from the shadows and poor Harnett seemed just to walk on to the thin long stiletto of their leader. The attack cleared my head and I drew my own dagger thinking these were Edward’s men, but the way they searched for Harnett’s purse made me realize that they were bandits, the scum of Rome. Nevertheless, they were just as dangerous as any professional assassins and equally frightening. They were dressed in gaily coloured rags with dark, gaunt, unshaven faces. Once they had searched Harnett, they came towards me. I could have fled, but the moment passed, and I was left with my back pressed against the wine-stained alley wall. Their approach was so relaxed that I thought I was dreaming. They did not even change expression as I adopted a fighting stance. Then suddenly, one of them clutched his chest and stared unbelievingly at the cross-bow quarrel which quivered there. He crumpled to the ground. His two companions stared wildly round and then turned to run. In the darkness behind me I heard a click and then saw both thieves brought short in their escape, arms wide out as they slipped to the ground with two more cross-bow quarrels embedded deep between their shoulders.
    I turned and peered through the darkness of the alley-way, looking for the source of my rescue. Then suddenly, the small fat man was beside me. He seemed so calm, his head slightly to one side as he looked quizzically at me. Behind him, I could see three other shadowy figures each armed with a squat crossbow. My rescuer smiled and took my dagger from my grip as if I was some naughty child.
    “You were lucky, Monsieur.” The man’s voice was deep and pleasant. Despite his good English, I realized that my rescuer was French. I wiped the sweat from my hands and muttered thanks. The man shrugged.
    “I am sorry that we could not save your friend, Master Beche, but,” he smiled, “we saved you. Come.” He almost snapped his fingers at me and then turned away. I realized that I had no option but to obey and we left poor Harnett and his murderers in the stinking alley as we made our way back into the city. We walked quickly, the small fat man in front while his three