The Death of a King

beckoned me to enter. He never asked my business but, bowing and smiling, led me through the cloisters and into the small, whitewashed cell of the prior. The latter was a plump grey-haired man who sat peering at a manuscript which rested on an intricately carved lectern. When the lay brother announced me, the prior sighed, closed the manuscript and rose to meet me.
    “Have you read Boethius, De Consolatione?” he queried in perfect Latin. I quoted an extract fluently and his brown face broke into a charming smile. “Good,” he exclaimed, “now I know the story about all Englishmen being tail-wearing barbarians is false.”
    He went across to a table, poured me a goblet of wine and asked how he could help me. I explained, as I had already done a hundred times, that I was looking for an Englishman who, I understood, had retired to a monastery near Rome. The prior ran his hand through his mop of grey hair and shook his head.
    “An Inglese? Here? A member of our order?” He shrugged and shook his head. “No, my son, there is no one here from your misty island. Our monastery is comprised of local men.”
    His gaze wandered back longingly to the lectern and the manuscript that he had left. Then he gasped; “Ah, mi fili , of course, I am thinking of the brothers. But there is Hugolino or Hugh, as you would call him. He is not a brother, but he works here as a gardener and a carpenter.” He pointed to the lectern. “He carved that. Poor Hugolino, he has been here so long that I almost forgot him.” He shrugged in that charming way the Italians have. “ Sic transit me-moria mea. ”
    The name “Hugolino” awoke a dim memory and set my heart thudding with excitement. “May I see him?” I exclaimed. “Of course,” the prior replied. “He is attending the flower-beds around the cloisters. I shall take you there.”
    I hadn’t noticed anyone when I passed through the cloisters before, but when the prior took me back, I saw a man, dressed in a brown robe, turning over the soil around a young rosebush.
    “May I see him alone?” I asked.
    The prior smiled understandingly and padded quietly away. I stepped over the yellowing brick wall and walked softly across the grass, but the man heard me and turned swiftly. He was a thick-built man, about six feet tall with grey, close-cropped hair. His face was dominated by hooded eyes and a nose which curved like the beak of a hawk. I only had the faintest description about Edward II, but something about this man’s bearing told me that he was no common gardener. I decided to waste no time and, just before I reached him, I knelt on one knee, bowed my head and murmured, “Edmund Beche, clerk, petitions Edward of Caernarvon, King of England, Duke of Aquitaine and Lord of Ireland, for a favour.” Only the tinkle of a small fountain broke the silence which followed my salutation. I kept kneeling and was beginning to wonder if I had acted too hastily, when a low, steady voice speaking fluent Norman French ordered me to rise. When I did, I found the gardener sitting on the low cloister wall, gazing speculatively at me.
    “Sit down, Master Beche,” he said. “Tell me, do you always call common gardeners king and lord?”
    I looked directly into his face and noted how the laughter lines crinkled his mouth and pale, blue eyes.
    “No, sire,” I replied, “only to Edward of Caernarvon, who escaped from Berkeley Castle and confessed as much to Manuel Fieschi at the papal court in Avignon.”
    At the mention of Fieschi’s name, the gardener grimaced and threw down his trowel.
    “So,” he said meditatively, “the man prattled, broke the seal of confession.” He laughed. “Perhaps he didn’t, for I told him who I was after absolution. But who are you? Who sent you? The king? My good wife? How many men have you brought with you? I warn you not to harm these good brothers. They do not know who I am, so if I have to die, take me out to do it. After eighteen years, I am more than ready.”
    I was alarmed at the drift of his speech and, without hesitation, I began to tell him all I knew. He ignored the bell for the midday meal and I talked until my voice was hoarse, whilst he, head bowed, probed at the ground with his trowel.
    When I had finished, he rose and extended his hand. “Come, Master Beche,” he said, “you have travelled far, talked much and need refreshment.” He led me across the cloisters to one of the outbuildings where he had his cell, a small, clean