The Death of a King

haunting sound of the horn coming from the forest, cutting across and, for a moment, silencing the fury of the killing ground. Twice it was repeated, ordering us to fall back, to retreat. I did not wait. Other braver souls may have stayed to guard the postern, our only exit and means of escape but I was through it. I made my way cursing and sobbing to the causeway and I ran, casting away my sword. Behind me I heard others following but, as the fighting in the castle ended, the deadly rain of arrows began again. I heard them whistle and thud and that soft smacking sound as they dropped a screaming man. Soon, I was at the bank climbing up to the same spot from where we launched our attack. I paused, just for a while, then I rose and staggered into the trees. I knew I had to hide before horsemen from the castle began their hunt. I suddenly realized that I was alone, and I wondered where the Dunheveds were and if they had been successful. Was Edward II free? I found that I did not care. I was tired, bruised, and could only curse the terrible restlessness which had taken me from my village and then my chosen profession to fight to the death alongside fanatics and rebels.
    Eventually, cursing myself, the Dunheveds as well as every prince and king, I took shelter in some heavy undergrowth and fell into an uneasy sleep. I woke the next morning cold, bruised and so numb that I wondered whether I could still walk. The morning was sunny and clear, and the song of the forest birds mocked my horrors of the previous night. I listened intently for sounds of pursuit and then crawled from my hiding-place. I ate some dried meat from my pouch, drank and bathed in a small stream. I began to feel better and decided to keep to the forest and return to the assembly point near Bardby before moving back into the Forest of Dean. At first, I found it difficult to walk, but the previous night’s sleep and fear of capture kept me going. I saw no sign of pursuers, except a corpse swinging from a tree in a glade that I did not cross but went around. I thought I recognized the body, a member of the Dunheved group, but I dared not approach it. I reasoned that any pursuit from Berkeley Castle may have already swept this part of the forest, or that the local commander may have even concentrated on another area. After two days I was near Bardby and so struck deeper into the forest, searching for the assembly point. Eventually I found it, a small clearing near some overhanging rocks. When I arrived, it looked deserted, then I saw the figure seated, head down as if asleep, against a tree. It was Stephen Dunheved. I looked around and, once satisfied that we were alone, began to move towards him. At once the head snapped up and I stopped when I saw the raised crossbow with its barbed, evil bolt pointing towards me. Stephen’s face was white and gaunt, and the eyes were black circles glaring at me. I could see that his right leg was covered in dark crusted blood. I hoped that he was not too feverish to recognize me.
    “Stephen,” I said. “It’s Peter.”
    Stephen stared, then gave that slow smile and, lowering his crossbow, said, “Peter, are you alone?”
    I nodded and he waved me forward. I knelt beside him.
    “Stephen,” I said, “Is there anything I can do?”
    He shook his head.
    “Did the king escape?” I asked.
    Again, he shook his head.
    “I don’t know,” he replied. He paused, grasped his leg and let his head sag forward on to his chest. I thought that he had fainted but then he continued.
    “I don’t know if the king escaped. I thought I saw a figure being carried towards the gate.” He gasped and waited till the pain passed.
    “I’ve seen nobody except you. Perhaps I’ll never know.” He turned and smiled.
    “And you,” he continued, “what will you do now?”
    “Try and get you to a place of safety,” I replied.
    Stephen shook his head and pulled a small fat purse of gold from his belt.
    “Take this,” he said, “and go, now!”
    I tried to plead with him, half-heartedly, I admit, for I could see that it was impossible to move him, because of his wounds. Stephen was adamant. I was to leave, and so I prepared to go. However, just before I rose, he grabbed my arm.
    “Peter,” he said, “let me tell you the secret I took to Avignon.” He then pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. I was so astonished that I recoiled in horror and stared speechlessly at him. Stephen then waved his hand at me.
    “Go, Peter, now