The Death of a King

foolish enough to remain in the city. I learnt with relief that Thomas Dunheved had managed to escape his pursuers and knew that he would probably go into hiding in his native county of Gloucestershire, probably in the Forest of Dean, where no royal forces would be able to catch him. I also knew that royal searchers were watching the ports and keeping a vigilant eye on all ships travelling to France with the specific purpose of arresting Stephen Dunheved.
    I thought he would never return. Then, one autumn evening in 1327, I returned to my cell after Compline to find Stephen waiting for me. His eyes looked tired and he had definitely aged, but there was little else to signify that he was an outlaw—almost a “wolf ’s-head” to be killed by anyone on sight. We embraced and then he told me that his “business” in Avignon had been shortened by the news of Isabella’s invasion and Edward’s captivity. He had managed to land in a Northern port, disguised as a seaman, but then travelled south as a Dominican under a false name and on a mythical mission, thanks to a friend in one of the northern Dominican houses. I knew such support would not have been difficult to obtain as Edward II had patronized our order and several of the brothers had been arrested for preaching against the new regime.
    I told him to sit down and relax while I went to the refectory for food and wine. When I returned, Stephen was fast asleep on my cot. I let him rest, noticing how the lines on his face had now disappeared. He woke after a few hours, roused by the bells ringing for prime. I did not go down for the dawn service and the ritual chanting which I loved but did not believe in, instead I sat and listened to Stephen’s account of how he had crossed the Pen-nines to meet his brother and others who were now hiding in the Forest of Dean. Stephen’s sallow face became flushed with excitement and his eyes glinted with fanaticism. He briefly informed me that Edward II had been moved from Kenilworth to Berkeley, just a few miles from the Forest of Dean, and that he and his brother intended to free the king before the inevitable secret murder of the imprisoned monarch. Cynical as I was, I gasped in horror at what Dunheved had said. I thought of Edward II as I had seen him, tall, regal and vibrant with life.
    “They will not kill him,” I protested. “He’s the king, God’s anointed.”
    Dunheved’s abrupt laughter cut me short.
    “At Kenilworth,” he said, “the king was safe. Henry of Lancaster would see to that, but Berkeley is controlled by Mortimer.”
    He looked directly at me.
    “They will kill him. One way or the other. They will say he died of natural causes or of an accident.”
    Dunheved silenced my protests with a gesture.
    “Kings do have accidents,” he replied. “William Rufus had a hunting accident. Rufus’ brother, Henry, died at the table and so did John Lackland. Edward II will prove no different.”
    Dunheved rose and went across to the small slit which served as the only window to my room. He stood listening to the faint chanting, wafted across by the early morning breeze.
    “It’s a strange task for a monk,” he said, almost as if he was thinking aloud.
    “It’s not what I intended but we all take paths that we never meant to.” He paused. “Peter, will you join us?”
    Before I could stop myself, I replied.
    “Yes, of course. You know I will.”
    I have often thought why I never even paused. Perhaps it was because I was getting old, tired of the order and of being a hypocrite, of acting a role but never really believing in it. I had realized my dream and found that it was only a dream but, above all, I was bored. I wanted change, something to happen and this was it. The advantage of being a monk was that my possessions were few. I collected food from the refectory and money from the almoner. Stephen and I then slipped out of Oxford and travelled without mishap to Gloucester. Here I finally discarded my Dominican robe and, after sheltering for a few days at an inn, we made contact with Thomas Dunheved. He simply joined us one morning at the table, acting as if he had always been with us. He had not aged like his brother. He was still the arrogant, cynical, cocky bastard he had been in his student days. He was not surprised to see me but simply smiled, kissed me on both cheeks, and welcomed my support to what he described as the “noble enterprise.” He then told us to finish our meal and join him