The Death of a King

shadowy companions ensured that I followed. We must have walked for miles through a maze of streets which eventually led to a piece of wasteland covered with the ruins of some ancient temple. My guide kept on walking to a group of large stones. He then sat, gestured to me to do likewise, and then stared at me as he mopped his brow and drank from a wine-skin he suddenly produced from his cloak. Behind me I heard his companions settle themselves. I remembered the fate of the three thieves and decided to sit as quietly as possible. The silence was eerie, broken only by the wine gurgling in the fat man’s throat and the far-off hoot of an owl hunting its prey under a clear Roman sky. Eventually, the fat man belched and passed the wine-skin to me. I drank gratefully and realized that the wine was good, not the vinegar of a Roman tavern.
    The fat man smiled and leaned towards me.
    “You,” he said, “are Master Beche, a clerk of the English royal Chancery, and I am Master Jean Raspale, clerk of the French royal Chancery.”
    He seemed to find the coincidence amusing.
    “I am correct, am I not?”
    “Yes,” I replied. “You are correct.”
    “Good. Then tell me as one professional to another. Have you found him?”
    I stared back at him with feigned innocence.
    “Found whom? I am an English clerk on royal business.”
    Master Raspale cut me short with a laugh and a shake of his head.
    “Master Beche, we have established that you are a clerk but not on royal business, otherwise why should your king want you dead?”
    I stood up protesting but Raspale curtly ordered me to sit, and then he passed a thin yellowing roll of parchment towards me which he had pulled from his wallet. I opened it and read my own death warrant. It was from the king and dated three days after Crécy and it declared me “Wolfshead,” an outlaw to be killed on sight for a suitable reward from a grateful king.
    Raspale watched me steadily as I carefully rerolled the parchment and handed it back to him.
    “Well, Monsieur?” he murmured.
    I shrugged. “Even clerks make mistakes.”
    Master Raspale got up and put his hands on my shoulders.
    “Monsieur, you owe me a life.”
    “I never asked for your help.”
    “No, but you got it,” the little Frenchman replied. “Moreover, you do not have to tell us much. We too have our spies. We know that you are investigating the death, or should I say disappearance, of Edward II.”
    I looked at him sharply.
    “As I have said, we also have our spies. We have known about it for some time, just as we know about the Fieschi letter. So, have you found him?”
    I shook my head.
    “Do you know where he is?”
    “No,” I replied. “and, if I did, how would it benefit you?”
    Raspale slumped back on his seat. “Edward III has claimed the crown of France. He has ravaged the country and just recently destroyed an entire French army. Anything we can use against him we will. Who knows,” he said in a half-whisper, “what we could find? Our spies knew you had sailed to Italy. It was only a matter of time before we picked up your trail here.”
    “Do you expect me to find Edward II for you?” I asked.
    “No, just find him and we will be behind you. We have confidence in you,” he smiled. “We can wait.”
    “And the English king’s men?”
    “Let us hope that we can complete our business before they arrive.”
    “I want to complete this mission myself,” I replied.
    Raspale rose and handed back my dagger. “Do what you have to, Englishman, but we shall be there.”
    Raspale looked into the darkness and then suddenly turned. “Come,” he snapped, “follow me.”
    I had little choice. I wrapped my heavy cloak round me and followed him into the night. Behind me, padding like faithful mastiffs, came his three companions. Raspale, despite his size and bulk, was a rapid walker. I followed him down a maze of stinking streets. Cats, black against the poor light, snarled and vanished hunting their elusive quarry; still we walked, Raspale slightly in front and his small retinue guiding me before them. We crossed small plazas and entered the more salubrious area of the city. Pilgrims, pimps and prostitutes began to jostle us as we threaded our path through them past busy churches and even busier taverns. At the corner of one plaza Raspale paused, his hand raised as if to give us a warning. I stopped behind him and gazed across the square towards a tavern entrance with torches blazing above the sleek