The Death of a King

fact that I wrote letters to you, and said nothing about Michael the Scot, or Isabella’s attempt to kill me. Even so, I was almost hoarse before I ended my story.
    Raspale then simply put his wine cup down and stared quietly at me. He then placed his square, stubby fingers on the table and, to my astonishment, asked for my story once again. I protested so loudly that heads in the tavern turned to stare at the corner in which we were sitting.
    “Monsieur,” Raspale whispered quietly, his face now a few inches away from me. “I want the story again. After all, you do owe me your life and I can be of assistance to you.”
    He picked up the small scroll which had been lying near him and tapped the table with it. So, once more, I began to recount my adventures and once more Raspale listened attentively, his head slightly cocked to one side as if this helped both his hearing and concentration. After I had finished, Raspale asked me a series of questions. To my surprise, he seemed to concentrate on the Dunheved gang. I told him what I knew about their attempt to free Edward II at Berkeley Castle and of my belief that they probably succeeded, referring once again to the funeral arrangements for the supposedly murdered Edward II. Almost angrily Raspale pushed this aside.
    “No, Monsieur,” he rapped. “We, or rather I, are much more concerned about Stephen Dunheved’s journey to Rome.”
    For a while I was nonplussed. Then I remembered that in the spring of 1326, a few months before Isabella and Mortimer invaded England, Edward II had sent Stephen Dunheved to the Pope at Avignon. There were rumours that this mission was in connection with Edward II’s attempts to gain a divorce from Isabella. I suddenly realized that I had never paid much attention to this. After all, it was a natural reaction of an angry king when he knew that he was being cuckolded. Moreover, nothing had come of it, and I had found no trace of the mission in any of the royal archives. I wryly recollected that an omission of something from the royal archives does not necessarily mean that it was unimportant.
    “Why?” I asked Raspale. “Why do you pay so much attention to this mission. Is there something I should know?”
    Raspale shrugged and smiled.
    “Perhaps, or perhaps not. We shall see.”
    I stared at him.
    “Do you expect me to lead you to Edward II?”
    Raspale shook his head.
    “No, Monsieur Beche, we follow different paths. But, remember, we shall watch you, and be careful. We do know that Chandos bears orders to kill you outright. Who would care if an English clerk disappeared in the wilds of the Italian countryside? Take care!”
    He rose from his stool, tossed the small roll of parchment towards me and quietly swept out of the tavern, his faithful shadows padding behind him.
    I decided not to wait any longer myself. I gazed quickly around the room, looking for strange faces or for eyes watching me intently. There were none, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before Chandos discovered where I was and where I drank. I took up Raspale’s parchment, leaving the tavern for the last time and made my way quickly back to the monastery. In the solitude of my cell I opened the parchment that Raspale had given me. It was written in Norman French, in a small neat hand, and my heart leapt with excitement when, on a quick perusal, I noticed the word “Dunheved” appearing repeatedly on the first folio. It proved to be a confession and I give it to you word for word.

    In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. I, Peter Crespin, former monk, former conspirator, former friend of the Dunheveds, and one of the last loyal adherents of good Edward II, being of sound mind—though sadly not for long—make my last confession. Soon I will be dead. Neck stretched, tongue out, bowels loose. Yet, what is the use? More to the point, what is the difference between me dead and me living? I was always ready to stretch my neck out, tongue clacking, that is why I am here in a stinking French gaol miles from England and its green grasses and cool rivers. Rouen! What a place to die! And for what? Helping myself to a purse of gold and having to kill a fat merchant for it. I tried to explain to the French notary that I was hungry and that I had not intended to murder. Thank God I told them that I was a former monk. Knowing these bastards they would have probably burnt me. I think it so ironical to be hanged for a theft when the