The Death of a King

he was a fanatical adherent of the king, the implacable foe of all those who opposed his royal master.
    Then, in the winter of 1326, at the height of the crisis between Isabella and Edward II, Stephen Dunheved came to see me. There was a blizzard blowing through Oxford and the city was in virtual hibernation. Stephen simply came to my room, entered without knocking, shrugged off his cowl and sat on a stool near the room’s one and only brazier. I let him sit there for a while, hands outstretched, staring into the glowing charcoal. He then turned to me and, even in the poor light, I could see that royal service had aged him. He had that gaunt, passionate look of the fanatic. He was brusque in his manner and informed me that he had come to take leave of me as well as receive letters from the Father Provincial, be cause he was on an urgent and secret royal mission to Avignon.
    “Why?” I asked.
    Stephen pursed his lips.
    “It’s something terrible. The king wants a divorce.”
    I pointed out that this was not so surprising in the circumstances. But Stephen shook his head.
    “It’s the reasons for the divorce,” he whispered.
    I urged him to tell me more but he refused and, after exchanging personal news over a cup of mulled wine, he left as quietly as he came.
    I can see that the clerk who is transcribing this is beginning to get agitated. Night has fallen, the torches flicker and he is tired. So I must move quickly to the major part of my story. Unlike Stephen Dunheved, I did not become involved in the political disputes between Edward II and his baronage. I stayed in Oxford as an adviser to the order and, though not too happy with my life, was content with the vocation I had chosen. I was a spectator of the events of 1326 when Isabella, that adultress bitch, returned from France with her lover Mortimer, and started a revolution against her husband. Our order was always well informed and I heard with dismay about the king’s rejection by the Londoners and his consequent flight into the West.
    Isabella brought her hordes of mercenaries and exiles to Oxford. The Mayor of Oxford had to go out to greet her and I was asked by the Provincial to accompany him to Woodstock where the queen had taken over the royal palace. We found the place packed with mercenaries from the Low Countries and Mortimer’s Welsh adherents. The French bitch received us in the great hall of the palace. She affected to wear half armour, but even the dimmest member of our delegation recognized this as simply dress armour intended for ostentatious display. Nevertheless, there was nothing unreal or soft about her attitude. She sat behind a great table at the top of the hall, on her left sat Mortimer, who said nothing but simply stared at us. On her right sat the young prince, and around her the principal captains and advisers of her army. She received the allegiance of the city of Oxford with no more than a nod, demanded the supplies and provender she needed, and pushed a roll of vellum across to our mayor, who by then was almost filling his breeches with fright. The roll was a list of her enemies and included all well-known supporters of Edward II. I noticed with relief that my name was not included but the two Dunheved brothers headed the list. The queen asked me if I knew of their whereabouts. I simply shrugged, made veiled reference to the fact that I was protected by the church and claimed that I had no knowledge of the whereabouts of Stephen or Thomas Dunheved. The queen dismissed my plea with a look of contempt and waved us wearily away.
    A day later her army took up pursuit of Edward, who was now fleeing through South Wales with an ever diminishing retinue. I thought of Stephen still in France, and wondered whether Thomas had joined the king in his flight. A few days later the provincial informed me that Thomas had joined the king and had been proclaimed an outlaw. The same edict also ordered the immediate arrest of Stephen Dunheved, if and when he returned to England. We were kept informed of the pursuit of the king and learnt, early in November, of his pathetic arrest at Neath Abbey. Edward, deserted by all, was bound and taken to Kenilworth Castle. I thought of the king I had met a decade ago and felt nothing but pity and compassion at his sudden fall from glory. The Despensers were brutally executed and, for a while, Isabella let the London mob have their way in hunting down and murdering any loyal adherents of Edward II who were