The Death of a King

this very cathedral and accused me of being party to Edward II’s murder. The accusation was a serious one so I purged myself by oath, as well as producing irrefutable evidence that when King Edward was killed, I was abroad on a mission to France.”
    Orleton sipped from a plain pewter goblet. “Naturally,” he continued, “my innocence was established. I was free of guilt but not from the suspicion of it. The present king has dismissed me from the council and I have never escaped from the endless circle of rumours concerning my supposed involvement in Edward II’s death.”
    The bishop stopped once more to gulp from the goblet. “Rhen-ish wine laced with nutmeg,” he explained. “It keeps the chill from my bones.” He put the goblet down and continued as if there had been no interruption. “Some of the rumours are quite incredible. You have heard of them?”
    I shook my head and Orleton, seizing a quill from a portable writing tray, scrawled a few words on a scrap of parchment.
    “Of course, you’re familiar with Latin?” he inquired. When I nodded, Orleton handed me the parchment and instructed me to construe the following sentence: “ Regem noli occidere, timere bonum est .”
    “‘Do not kill the king, it is good to be afraid’?” I translated questioningly.
    Orleton nodded with satisfaction and quickly scrawled another message for me to read. The phrase was identical to the one before and I was about to hand it back when Orleton told me to scrutinize it more carefully. I did so and noticed that although the words were identical, Orleton had now moved the comma from the “ occidere ” forward to the “ timere ,” so the translation now became “Do not fear to kill the king, it is a good thing.”
    The bishop must have gathered from my startled expression that I had discovered the new translation for he grinned mirthlessly and slumped back in his chair, a small parchment-knife balanced carefully between his fingers.
    “Rumour has it, Master Beche,” he explained, “that I sent the second message to Edward II’s gaolers in reply to their request about what they should do with the king. Then when there was an official inquiry into his murder after Mortimer’s fall from power, I was supposed to have claimed that the comma had been moved. If it comes after the word occidere , then it reads as you first translated it, a piece of simple advice. The gaolers were not to kill their prisoner, as I expected that they should be frightened of their great responsibilities.”
    Orleton tossed the knife on to the table and leaned forward. “The story is a complete fable, Master Clerk. I never sent such a message. I was abroad when the old king died and, even if I had been present, I would never have had the authority to issue such an order. So why do I tell you this fable?” Orleton’s voice almost rose to a shout. “Simply to illustrate the lies and popular hysteria which still surround Edward II’s death. Do you understand?”
    I hastily reassured him that I did. I also realized Orleton could tell me little although his account had flushed one hare from the corn.
    “My lord,” I began, “you mentioned both the king’s gaolers and an official inquiry into the horrible crime they committed. Who were these gaolers and was there really an inquiry?”
    For a while Orleton stared hard at the rafters above my head before telling me that Edward II had been imprisoned at Berkeley Castle in Gloucestershire. The king had been under the direct supervision of Sir Thomas Berkeley, father of the present seigneur. Lord Berkeley, he explained, was tried by his peers at the November Parliament of 1330 and declared innocent of any involvement in Edward II’s murder.
    I pressed Orleton for the reasons for such a verdict, but he claimed his memory was failing. He did admit that there had been other gaolers involved in the murder but these were never brought to trial as they had fled overseas.
    Orleton rose wearily as if exhausted by the violence of his speech and extended a gnarled hand for me to kiss, a sign that the audience was over. I was about to withdraw when he suddenly called out, “Master Beche, I do wish you success with your commission.” I turned expectantly, for his tone conveyed more than a pleasant dismissal, but the bishop shook his head.
    “No,” he said softly, “there’s little to add, except that it was I who heard Mortimer’s last confession. You know canon law, Master Beche, and