The Death of a King

horses tied there and men, heavily muffled against the cool of the night, moving to and fro. Then in an instant, one figure detached itself from the crowd and stood in the pool of light thrown by the flickering cressets. Under the long blond hair, I recognized the gaunt hawk features of Chandos. I could not believe it. He was here in Rome! I turned to see Raspale studying me, his head slightly cocked to one side like an inquisitive robin.
    “Well, Monsieur?”
    I looked at him.
    “Chandos has been here for a few days,” he whispered, following me deeper into the shadows.
    “How did you know?” I asked.
    Raspale shrugged and looked across at the tavern entrance, now deserted except for the restless horses.
    “We know, Master Beche,” he replied. “We also know that he has been tracking you. We also know that he is going to kill you.” He nodded towards the tavern.
    “You owe me your life, Master Beche. Twice. Once in the alley and now this.”
    I looked at him.
    “If we had not found you,” he continued, “they would have.”
    I gazed into his dark liquid eyes and I realized that he was speaking the truth.
    “I thank you, Monsieur, but...”
    “But nothing Monsieur. We wish to know things. And,” he tapped his nose, “we can tell you something.”
    I nodded my agreement and Raspale seemed pleased with this.
    “Be at the tavern tomorrow, Monsieur.” He then nodded at his companions. “They will see you home.”
    So they did, Richard. Through the maze of streets back to the Franciscan monastery. They evidently knew where I was staying—but what really concerns me is how did Chandos learn where I was going—and learn so quickly? This thought still concerns and worries me. I must end this letter. Written in haste from Rome. October, 1346.

Letter Eleven
    Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. The day after I sent the last letter to you proved to be momentous. Let me first explain, I do apologize for the length of this letter, but I did say I would tell you all I know. Moreover, like any good clerk, I find it easy to solve a problem. Once I have transcribed it.
    Early in the morning I was to meet Raspale, I awoke, washed and, after eating the bread and grapes supplied by the little brothers, made my way down to the tavern. It was strange to enter its tangy, bitter-sweet atmosphere so early in the day and to find Raspale already there. He looked pert and fresh as if the previous evening’s exertions had no effect on him. He sat at his ease behind a corner table, on one side of which lay a small vellum scroll and on the other a cup of wine and the remains of his breakfast. Raspale smiled a greeting, waved me to sit down and called for more wine and a bowl of fruit. He waited until they had been brought before speaking.
    “Monsieur, you owe me your life on two counts. So, I think there is a debt to be paid. I have too much respect for you to think I can get it by torture or any other foul means but, as I said last evening, we know a great deal about your mission and for whom you are looking.”
    “Why?” I asked. “Why is it so important to you?”
    Raspale shrugged nonchalantly and twirled the cup in his hand, watching the wine twist and turn.
    “I have already explained that,” he answered. “It does not affect you, and it is a matter of deep concern to my masters.” He put the cup down and gazed at me.
    “Anyway, why should it concern you? You have no love for your master, King Edward III.”
    I nodded in agreement, although I was quick to notice that Raspale had almost omitted the word “King.” However, I let that pass, as a simple reaction of a French clerk who has seen his country plundered by English armies.
    “What can I tell you?” I asked.
    “As much as you know,” Raspale answered.
    He looked beyond me at the ceiling.
    “Time is short, Monsieur. I would appreciate a quick summary of what you have found.”
    I thought for a while. There was nothing to lose. Raspale seemed an honourable man, who had saved my life on two separate occasions. He was right. I owed him a debt and it should be repaid. So I put my arms on the table, leaned forward and began to give him an account of what had happened since that interview so long ago in the chapel at Windsor Castle. Raspale listened intently and, now and again, asked me to repeat certain incidents, placing particular emphasis on Edward III’s evident concern for my mission. Of course, I never told him everything. I omitted the