The Death of a King

chamber with a bed, a table and a few stools. He poured me a cup of wine, pushed a basket of fruit into my lap and then sat opposite me on the edge of his small bed.
    “Where shall I begin, Master Clerk?” he asked. “Both of us know who I am, but you are wrong on one small count. I am not a king. I was legally deposed and, in the eyes of my former subjects, I have even ceased to exist. All you have told me is true, but I can guess at the question which is still eating away at you. Why have I not returned? Why did I not raise troops to win back my throne, instead of hiding away in a small Italian monastery?” He smiled and swilled the wine around in his cup.
    “At first,” he explained slowly, “I wanted to do all these things, but once I was free from Berkeley, I also found that I had escaped the hurly-burly of kingship. No one gladly relinquishes his power, Master Beche, but in my case, it is true. My father spent all his life training me to be his heir but when the crown came to me, I found that I not only had to fight the French, the Scots and my own barons to keep it, but live with a woman I grew to hate. It’s a high price to pay for any crown, but I was forced to pay more: my only friends, the Despensers, were taken from me and executed. Both did wrong, as I did, but they died simply because they were the king’s confidants, and so carried the blame for all his mistakes. My father wanted me to be king, my wife derided me because I did not act like one, and the barons attacked me because I refused to be the kind they wanted. They would have certainly killed me at Berkeley, but Dunheved organized my escape. I never knew how Dunheved managed to enter the castle. I merely heard scuffling, then the flagstone covering the pit was raised, I was dragged up, a bundle was thrust in my hand, and I was led to the postern gate of the castle. My guide managed to get me through but, whilst I was following him out, an arrow took him straight in the neck. Despite my imprisonment, terror forced me to run, and only after a few hours did I stop to rest. I opened the bundle and found a set of clothes, some bread, a knife and a bag of gold. For a while, I waited for Dunheved but, when I could gather no news of his whereabouts, I decided to flee to Ireland. From there, I sailed to France and wandered to Avignon, and from there into Italy. At first I thought that Isabella and Mortimer would instigate a great search for me. But then I heard about their mock funeral and decided that silence was the better part of valour. I was forced to reconsider my position. If I did claim to be king, I would either be dismissed as a fool or executed as a dangerous fanatic. However, the failure of Edmund of Kent’s pathetic plot showed that there was little chance or even support for my restoration. On the heels of this decision, came the swift realization that I had no desire to be restored. All I really wanted was peace, and here I have found it.” He paused to light two candles before continuing.
    “I was not an evil king, Master Beche, but simply a man unfit to be one. My country suffered because of it. My friend, Hugh Despenser, died because of it. That is why I took his name, as an act of reparation.” He looked at me beseechingly. “Do you understand?”
    “Sire,” I began.
    “Never call me by that or any other of my titles,” he inter rupted. “If you do, I shall be forced to ignore you. Well,” he smiled, “your question?”
    “It concerns the Queen Dowager,” I muttered, “Isabella, your wife.”
    Hugolino laughed throatily.
    “Isabella ceased to be my wife when she opened her legs to another. To be charitable, one must be just, Master Edmund. Isabella was, is, and will probably always be a veritable bitch, a she-wolf. She has never changed and she probably thinks the same about me. So she guards herself against my return. But,” he rose, “let the dead rest, and Isabella is dead to me. Come,” he smiled, “I’ll show you to your quarters and tomorrow you can rest and we can talk again.”
    Since then, Richard, I have continued to stay at Butrio. I have no desire to return to England to face the vengeance of either the king or Isabella. Nor is there anything there to draw me back. At Butrio, on the other hand, I have found peace. The prior was only too willing to house an Oxford clerk with whom he can debate the finer points of theology, as well as one so proficient in the use and treatment of ancient