The Death of a King

never forget. Even now it cuts like a knife through the cynicism, disillusionment and tragedy of my life. Winchester, I suppose, is no great marvel, but to me it was the heavenly Jerusalem that Father William used to babble about in his sermons. Great stone buildings, cobbled thoroughfares, columns, colours and more people than I ever imagined could exist. Buildings, houses, four storeys high, ladies in silks with painted haughty faces and their young men in velvet hose and fur-trimmed capes. Yet it was the cathedral which fascinated me: long white columns of stone soaring into the sky and then bending back to give curved spacious arches. Each arch, each curve told a story or sung a hymn of praise to its creator. Everywhere the curved and intricately carved masonry presented the visitor with scenes of heaven and hell. Naturally, it was the latter with its grotesque half-man, half-beast population, which caught my wandering attention. They presented a world turned upside down; dogs with human faces and humans with the faces of sows, dragons and other beasts I hardly recognized.
    My father left me gaping there whilst he went searching for the treasurer’s office. I spent those hours in the cathedral, but it was when I wandered into the cloisters that the seeds of my vocation were sown. I remember wandering there in the warm sunshine listening to the bees hum and sing as they plundered the honeysuckle and other wild flowers which grew there in abundance. Leading off from these cloisters were the cells of the monks: clean, whitewashed, comfortable and attractive in their ordered simplicity. The monks, themselves, slipped and padded by me. A few would smile and raise their long white fingers in half a blessing. I envied them. I envied their world, so ordered, so clean, so calm in such beautiful surroundings.
    I went back to my village, fully determined to become a monk. Yet I did not tell my parents, as I felt that there was still something missing. My parents, as I have explained, had spoiled me. I was used to being the centre of attention, but if I became a monk then I would lose this. I was attracted by the clean, sophisticated simplicity of their lives, but repelled by the anonymity. I can see the clerk, who is transcribing this, smirk. Of course, I know why the little bastard smirks. My pardon. He knows I had no vocation. Well, let me tell you, I’ve met few who have. How many of our priests live like Christ? You could count them on one hand.
    Anyway, I’m digressing. The clerk has just informed me that he is putting down my oaths and profanities. Good! That’s the way I want it. He has also told me, the snivelling little snot, that time is passing and I’ve told them nothing. Well, what does it matter? I am going nowhere and I do have something to say. Anyway, at least I’m making sure that one clerk does a decent day’s work. It is important for me to tell about my early life, it explains what happens later and reserves my name from the monotonous anonymity of death. My parents would have liked that. Some compensation for all their money and efforts.
    To my youth again. I kept my vocation secret as I still had doubts and reservations. Then, one day, a friar came to the village. Not one of your Franciscans, but a Dominican. I had heard vague rumours of these. Clever men, fierce preachers who travelled the countryside preaching God’s love and the equality of man. The Dominican who came to our village was no different. Tall, sunburnt, with cropped head and grey-blue eyes, he seemed to tower above us all in his striking black and white robe. He took over our church, ignored the bleatings of Father William and proceeded to deliver sermons to all who would come and, if they didn’t, he went looking for them in their homes or working on the great outfields of the bishop. His voice was dark and rich and, with his long fingers curling and twirling, he painted pictures of God and the life hereafter as if he had been there himself. It was a drama which held us spellbound and, when he left, I knew what I wanted to be. A monk, but a Dominican who would hold the stage and yet enjoy the cool, clean solitude of the monastery.
    My friend, the clerk, is beginning to mutter, so I’ll pass quickly on. Suffice to say that I told my parents. My poor, tired mother was overjoyed, while my father was torn between losing his one and only son and the chance to get rid of what he secretly thought was a cuckoo in his nest. He had