The Death of a King

When I learnt of her pregnancy, I was surprised, but the thought of adultery never entered my mind. We’d had intercourse on a few occasions and so conception of a child was not impossible. Only in 1326, when Isabella was abroad, did I find out the truth and I was too proud to proclaim myself a cuckold for the amusement of the rest of Europe.
    “How did the present king get to know?” I asked.
    Hugolino smiled mirthlessly.
    “Just before he went to join his mother in France, I told him. I screamed his bastardy at him and told him to go. I believe Mortimer knew and taunted him with the fact. That’s the real reason behind the coup which overthrew Mortimer and sent him gagged to his death. Now, Edmund, can’t you understand why the king wants me? He believed me dead, whatever the circumstances. When he heard from Fieschi that I was still alive, then he had to track me down. Can’t you see, Edmund, the king has plunged all of Europe into war for the crown of France, yet he hasn’t even a claim to the one he wears. No bastard issue can ever inherit the English throne. He is frightened that I shall open my mouth and disown him before all Europe. Even if I was dismissed as an idiot, the rumour I would start could do him more damage than any threat the King of France could ever pose. It is that information which Dunheved took to Rome, which he later passed on to Crespin. Once the French court learnt about it, then it was only a matter of time before they, too, started their hunt.”
    Hugolino stopped and looked at me.
    “Master Clerk, the king may not be my son, but he is Isabella’s, and possesses her ruthlessness. My friend, whether you like it or not, we are both dead men.”
    He rose, touched me lightly on the shoulder and walked back to his cell.
    I shall not tell you how the rest of that day passed. But I did decide that I could not sit and wait to be slaughtered like some dumb ox. The next morning I armed myself and set out to explore every nook and cranny of the entire valley. Five days I searched. I found nothing, although I suspected that I was being followed and watched at every step I took. Eventually, I turned my tired nag back to St Albert’s. I was aware of its great bell tolling slowly, long before it dawned on me what it could mean. I kicked the donkey into a furious gallop and thundered into the monastery forecourt. The prior was waiting and I knew from his face that it was too late. Three hours earlier, Hugolino had been found lying in his garden with a dagger driven firmly between his shoulder-blades, whilst his murderer had vanished as quietly as he had come. Because of the intense heat, the good brothers had already dressed the body for burial and it lay in a wooden coffin before the altar of the monastery chapel. The prior wanted to know if I knew why Hugolino had been murdered, but I said nothing. I merely went and knelt beside the coffin and prayed for the king I had come to love and respect.
    The next morning, he was buried beneath the chapel floor. The prior simply ordered the name “Hugolino” to be scratched on the flagstone and, although he looked very confused, he did not interfere when I added the word “Rex.”
    So, Richard, Edward the King is dead, and his bastard successor can live in peace. But can you, Richard? Why did you betray me? Only you, my friend, could have told the king where I was and what I had found. When did you betray me, Richard? From the beginning, and for what? What were your thirty pieces of silver? An abbey? A bishopric? May God forgive you, Richard, because I cannot. Nor will the king. I know I could be writing to a dead man. Perhaps he will intercept this letter. I hope so. Like any good clerk, I have made a copy of every letter I have sent you. I was always, if anything, an efficient, capable Chancery clerk. I will entrust these copies to capable hands. So the truth about our bastard king will never die.
    This evening, my dear Judas, I am going to ride out of St Albert’s and I know that I might never finish that journey. Like Hugolino, I too, must disappear. I am not afraid to die. I have lost all, and there is nothing left to live for. But before I finish, let me remind you, Richard, that you, not Guerney, nor Maltravers, nor Ockle, killed a king. Written at Butrio, 15 February, 1347.

Epilogue
    In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen. I, Giuseppe, Abbot of the Monastery of St Albert at Butrio, have read all the above