The Death of a King

and Stratford claim they know little. Queen Isabella is in retirement and an unapproachable recluse, whilst the king’s sisters were excluded from affairs of state on account of their youth. I also dismissed the king’s present clique of friends and councillors, for they would scarcely enjoy current royal favour if they had collaborated with Mortimer. The rest of the list, the king’s brother, John; his uncles, Edmund of Kent and Thomas of Norfolk; and Edward II’s gaoler, Thomas de Berkeley, are all dead.
    My disappointment was acute for I had hoped my investigation would be based on personal witness. Unlike the psalmist, “I have never said in my heart all men are liars,” they usually tell the truth even if it is only implicit in the lies they fabricate. I spent days and nights scrutinizing my lists, neglecting food, drink, even Kate. I was on the brink of despair when I did remember one omission from my list, Adam Orleton, Bishop of Worcester. He had been a confidant of Mortimer and his ruthless ambition became a by-word in an age notorious for its self-seeking clerics. Orleton had managed to survive Mortimer’s downfall due to his episcopal office, as well as to the fact that he had only been responsible for conducting foreign policy with little influence on domestic matters. This accounted for his frequent absences from Mortimer’s retinue, as well as his exclusion from the list I had first drawn up.
    A few discreet inquiries amongst my colleagues revealed that after 1330, Orleton had received no further preferment. He had spent the last fifteen years in seclusion from court, ruling his diocese of Worcester like a pope. I decided to petition Orleton for assistance in writing my “history” and was gratified by a swift reply. The bishop, so his secretary wrote, would be pleased to meet me in his chambers at Worcester Cathedral after the midday mass on the first of November, the Feast of All Saints. I left London the day after I received this reply and, after an uneventful journey, arrived in Worcester on the last day of October and lodged at an inn near the city’s west gate. The next morning I went to the cathedral and presented myself to the bishop’s chancellor, who led me through a maze of draughty passageways into a great chamber where Orleton was sitting enthroned behind a large oaken table. I was immediately struck by the grandeur of my surround-ings: sweet-smelling rushes covered the floor whilst the walls were draped in multicolored tapestries from Bruges, most of them dealing with themes certainly not to be found in the Bible or the writings of the Fathers. Around the room, beeswax candles and small glowing braziers fended off the chill November darkness. Their fire sparkled from the many precious objects which adorned the spacious chamber.
    I could have stood and gawked till Christmas but when the bishop’s chancellor coughed and closed the door behind me, I hastily remembered protocol. I walked forward and made the most reverent obeisance towards the desk. A harsh voice bade me stand and I rose to inspect one of England’s most notorious prelates. I expected an ogre but, despite the swarth of purple robes and sable furs, the figure in the chair was frail and small and his face was as pale and finely etched as any ascetic. Yet, as Orleton leaned closer, I noticed his eyes were little, hard, black pebbles and their stare never faltered.
    “You’re here at the king’s express command?” The voice had lost some of its sharpness.
    “His Grace,” I replied glibly, “has commissioned me to write a history of his late father’s reign. I hoped your lordship could provide me with some information concerning that king’s unhappy end.”
    Orleton fingered a tassle on his robe. “Master Beche,” he replied, “I know why you are here. The real reason, that is.” He held up a scrawny, be-ringed hand to stop any denial. “I, too, have my spies, Master Clerk, so rest content with that. Let us be brief,” he jabbed a finger at me, “you know, I know, the king knows, indeed the whole realm knows, that I was a friend of Mortimer. A member of his secret council, but I was not, I repeat, not, involved in Edward II’s murder. In my life, I have been many things but never a perjurer and I have publicly sworn my innocence as regards the death of our present king’s father.” He paused before continuing, “In April, 1334, a clerk, John Prickhare, or Prickarse, as I like to call him, came into