The Death of a King Read Online Free PDF

meadows of the River Avon. The great keep soars high and on its turret fluttered a multi-coloured banner emblazoned with the arms of the Berkeleys. The morass which surrounds the castle’s crenellated walls forced me on to the causeway which led to the main gate. I was about twenty paces from it when a voice rang out, ordering me to stop and state my business. I tried to raise my voice above the wind, waving the royal commission as if it was a pennant. After a long, silent wait a postern door opened. I dismounted and led in my mare and then returned for the sumpter-pony. The door was slammed behind me and a serjeant clattered down from the parapet, shouting questions at me. I curtly informed him I was on the king’s business and wished to speak to Sir Maurice Berkeley. The man nodded and bawled at a shivering groom to look after my nags. He led me across the outer and inner baileys, into the keep and up a flight of stairs to the great hall of the castle.
    It was a long spacious room, with black rafters spanning walls covered in silken Flemish tapestries. At the far end, a few figures, huddled in great cloaks, lounged around the high table. My guide bade me stay where I was and hurried forward to an over-dressed young man sitting in the centre of the group. I knew this must be Lord Berkeley. After a brief conversation with the serjeant, Berkeley beckoned me forward and stood to receive the commission I held. Despite his rich robes, Berkeley is no fop; his muscular frame, fiery red hair and tense scarred face mark him as a soldier, more suited to the camp than the court. He scanned my commission, said a few words to his companions and led me over to a window embrasure. The arrow slit was sealed with wooden shutters and we crouched on stools around a small, sweet-smelling brazier. Berkeley came swiftly to the point and asked if I had come to question him, or simply to see the cell where the king’s father had died. I told him both, and added that I would like to inspect the accounts for Berkeley Castle during the period Edward II was held prisoner there. Berkeley asked why and I glibly informed him that the king wanted my history to be based on documentary evidence, as well as verbal accounts. He seemed satisfied with this reply and I thought the interview over when he began to speak softly, as if to himself.
    “Edward II’s death was a crime, Master Clerk. A perpetual stain on the Berkeley name, but the real pity is that my father knew nothing about it. God rest his soul.”
    “How’s that?” I asked.
    Berkeley looked intently into the brazier. “Because, Master Clerk, my father was not at Berkeley when the king was killed, but at Bradby, a few miles away, suffering from an illness which nearly proved fatal. Believe me, this is no fable. My father’s absence was attested to by many independent witnesses.”
    I was impressed by the man’s earnestness, but equally determined to exploit his eagerness to clear his family’s name.
    “My lord,” I asked tentatively, “did you or your father notice anything peculiar or extraordinary during the late king’s imprisonment?”
    Berkeley pursed his lips. “You must understand,” he replied, “that though Edward II was imprisoned here, the Berkeleys were not responsible for his custody. My father was a kinsman of Mortimer, but he was a sick man and used his illness as an excuse to leave this castle as often as possible. Mortimer chose this place because of its vast remoteness, as well as its proximity to his own lands on the Welsh border. The castle was filled with Mortimer’s retainers and Edward II’s imprisonment was entrusted to three of Mortimer’s closest henchmen, Sir John Maltravers, Sir Thomas Guerney and William Ockle. The first was a Somerset knight who hated the deposed king. Guerney was a professional killer and Ockle was a hunchbacked, misbegotten nonentity.” Berkeley paused for a moment. “Maltravers had little to do with the prisoner. He was simply my