The Death of a King

you have the secret which would rock kingdoms and thrones.”
    I left him there, alone in the glade, and turned deeper into the forest. I found it difficult to grasp what he had told me but, at the same time, fear and self-preservation made me concentrate on securing my own escape.
    To cut this long story short, Master Scribbler, I did escape and came with my “secret to totter kingdoms and thrones” to France. I have had a number of trades but never once acted as a priest. That is behind me. I heard rumours of the capture and death of the Dun-heveds, and then the news of Mortimer’s fall. I even heard news of Edward II’s being alive and free but nothing substantial. However, what I know, I will hold.
    So, Master Clerk, stop sitting there on your cold little pink arse and go and tell your masters that I have news that will shake and overturn the throne of England but, in return, I want a pardon and thirty pieces of gold.

    This confession was taken from Peter Crespin, a self-confessed murderer and thief, in the town gaol of Rouen in December of the year of Our Lord 1344 by one Henri Tillard, clerk to the king’s justices.
    Post Scriptum
    Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton. This long confession of Peter Crespin seems to hint that my mission has something more to it than finding out what happened to Edward II, or even if he is still alive. It is connected with the mission of Stephen Dunheved and I could curse myself for overlooking that episode. Crespin knew something, he learnt it from Dunheved and it must have bought him his life, otherwise how would Raspale know? I believe that Crespin gave details about his early life to establish his authenticity, and both he and his story must have been accepted by the French court. This explains Raspale’s mission to Italy as well as his interest solely in Dunheved’s mission. The latter is evidently more important than Edward II’s escape? What could it be? I feel like searching Raspale out and asking him but that would be too dangerous. God knows. Pray for me.
    Rome—October, 1346.

Letter Twelve
    Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. I have found what I have been looking for and, though my mission is at an end, I shall tell you all, rather than cry “finis” and lapse into silence. This letter is the last that I shall ever send you. Indeed, I think I shall never see you again. I am sending this letter in a copy of Aristotle’s Metaphysics. This is a gift to you, Richard, a token of friendship I shall always cherish.
    I awoke early the next morning, determined to get out of Rome as quickly as possible. I intensified my searches, always aware that Raspale might be watching me and that he could well be joined by envoys from England. I felt like the hunter who was quickly becoming the hunted. I decided to ask the Franciscans for aid, and I approached an English friar who had befriended me and lent me the guide book. I swore him to secrecy and vowed that my mission was not immoral or dishonest, but that I needed to leave Rome as quickly and quietly as possible. The friar smiled, padded away and came back with a Franciscan robe.
    “Tomorrow,” he said, “certain of the brothers are leaving Rome. Put this on and go with them. It would be safer if you camped outside the city.”
    I did as he said. The following morning I put on the brown coarse robe, paid the brothers for a small sturdy cob and left the eternal city as a bowed, cowled friar. The Roman countryside was a peaceful contrast to the heat and dirt of the city. The red soil, the leafy vineyard terraces and cool olive groves. When I thought it was safe, I dropped to the back of our silent cavalcade and turned quietly into an olive grove. I took off the brown heavy robe and made my way deeper into the grove. I decided to stay near the main highway and resolved to camp in a cave at the foot of some cliffs at the far end of the grove. From there, safe from Raspale, I continued my searches.
    I never gave up hope and I was planning to extend my radius even further, when I visited the small monastery of St Albert at Butrio. Butrio is a small, whitewashed village nestling at the foot of a cypress-filled valley. The monastery lies a few miles to the east of the village. It consists of a small chapel, a cloister and a cluster of outbuildings, bounded by a thick, huge wall. I made my way to the main gate and pulled hard at the bell rope. A smiling lay brother, chattering like a magpie, opened the postern door and