The Death of a King

innate genius for survival and promotion. A friend of Lancaster, Minister under Edward II and adviser to Isabella. He had attained the pinnacle of success under Edward II, who had made him Archbishop of Canterbury. I knew he would evade any question I would ask.
    So, tired of platitudes, I asked if I could question the queen dowager, but the king wearily informed me that his mother could tell me very little for she knew nothing more than she had told him already. I remembered to smile understandingly and let the matter drop, as far too dangerous to pursue.
    The king pushed a small scroll towards me. “Here is your letter of commission. It does not specify your task. You will keep that secret under the pretence of writing a history of my late father’s reign.” As he rasped out his last order to me, Stratford’s gnarled hands pushed a book of the gospels towards me. No sooner had I risen to swear myself to secrecy than Stratford gripped my wrist, forcing me to gaze into his narrow, yellow-flecked eyes. “Master Clerk,” he lisped, “you will send your reports direct to the king. Your task is important, a matter of state. Divulge it and you are an attainted traitor. You do understand?”
    I nodded dumbly. Stratford relaxed his grip and handed me my commission which I thrust into my belt-pouch. The king seemed a little disconcerted by his archbishop’s actions and tried to cheer me with assurances and promises of support. He then deftly dismissed me and the ever-taciturn Sir John Chandos took me back to the waiting barge. He and his company took me back to Queenshithe Wharf. The journey back was sluggish against the changing tide. I hardly noticed. I sat and stared anywhere except into Chandos’s cold, steel-blue eyes.
    I was back in Bread Street late in the afternoon and spent the rest of the day analysing what had happened at Windsor. Why, I kept asking myself, was the king so interested in his father’s death sixteen years after the event? Why the great secrecy and, above all, why had the king chosen me? True, I am a skilled civil servant with some military service but I am also a commoner, bereft of kin, few in friends and lacking any powerful patron. Facts, the king had so readily emphasised. My parents are dead, I have no kin or friends except Kate, a sweet little piece in the service of a London mercer. She swears she loves me, and probably does, but her feather brain cannot understand the simplest problem, never mind the complexities of political intrigue. In fact, I reflected bitterly, I was the type of person who quietly disappears should he anger the high and mighty. I got up from my pallet and looked into the polished metal mirror. A tired lined face stared back, sallow with large dark-ringed eyes, long thin nose and short, dark hair. I looked at myself and thought about my loneliness, the chances missed and the opportunities lost. Was I to ruin this one? Ambition and a restless excitement have persuaded me to grasp it.
    Nevertheless, I am writing to you, Richard, in defiance of my lord archbishop and my forced oath of secrecy. I am not seeking advice (I beg you never to reply) but simply to entrust you with what I find. I shall tell you all, describe events and report conversations, to serve as my bond, my security against the king in the event of my disappearance or trial for treason on some trumped-up charge. All my letters, like this one, will be sent north to you by any trustworthy messenger I can find. God keep you Richard. Written at Bread Street, 16 August, 1345.

Letter Two
    Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, health and greetings. Please accept my apologies, dear friend, for the weeks that have passed since I wrote to you but the king’s “secret matter” is proving to be a hard task-master.
    I started the investigation in my own chambers. My absence from the Chancery went unnoticed apart from a little envious chatter, as release from normal duties usually means another step up the greasy ladder of royal preferment. I was glad to be free. Even the most dedicated clerk tires of the cramped writing quarters, the poor light, the squeak of quill on parchment and, above all, the smell of sweat and burning wax. At first, I saw my task as a holiday. I began by listing those of the present king’s family and council who had survived the four-year reign of Mortimer and Isabella. My list, based on Chancery documents for the years 1326 to 1330 was long, but it soon shrank to a pitiful few. The king