The Great Revolt Page 13

  ‘He did,’ Odo interrupted. ‘To be blunt, the Dunheveds discovered that repair work was being carried out at Berkeley Castle. Thomas suborned a carpenter who opened a postern gate. I was there, though I was not in the group who stormed the keep and reached the royal prisoner. I did see Edward being hurried up some steps by the Dunheved brothers and their closest adherents.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Brother, I swear that night marked the end of my adventures with the Dunheveds. The King had been freed. I heard the three horn blasts, the sound wailing through the darkness, the agreed sign for us to withdraw. I fled through the postern gate and into the forest. I was a seasoned soldier. I realised what was going to happen and sure enough it did. The following morning, Mortimer despatched a veritable army to search about. We had stirred up a tempest and the storm swept through all our hiding places. I was a fortunate one. I never stopped. I didn’t hide. I didn’t think to lie low like some fox. I stole a horse and rode like the wind until I reached London. I became lost in the gloomy dungeons of the city’s underworld, the haunt of blood-red blades, dark souls and cruel hearts. I hid where the demons muster and the prowlers lurk.’

  ‘And what happened to Dunheved and the King?’

  ‘Oh, I met various people who told me stories about how the Dunheveds had spirited the deposed king out of the realm. These were rumours. Members of the Dunheveds’ coven crept into the city like I did. They brought their stories, the gossip of their coven. One I remember, a young clerk, I forget his name, he claimed that Edward II was sheltering in a hermitage in Lombardy, an abbey—’

  ‘Sancto Alberto di Butrio?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one, I am sure of it! I recall the story. How the old king was supposed to have fled there. How some of Dunheved’s closest followers had also journeyed to stay with their former king …’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘Oh no, Brother Athelstan. When Mortimer fell from power I sued for a royal pardon. Through the good offices of the Despenser family, I not only received this but a good position in the garrison of the Tower. I settled down. I ignored the past and it ignored me. I married Yvette. Lovely lass,’ he added dreamily. ‘But she died in childbirth, the baby with her. I married again but the sweating sickness swept through the city and took her away. After that my heart could tolerate no more pain. I lived a soldier’s life. I served here, I served there. Nobody from the past ever bothered me. Well, not until today. Eventually I became too weak and the crown provided a corrody amongst the good brothers at Whitefriars. It’s a peaceful, gentle life.’

  Athelstan nodded in agreement and gazed across the sun-filled garden. ‘The Dunheveds,’ he asked, ‘were they alike in looks? How would you describe them?’

  ‘No,’ Odo screwed up his face, ‘they didn’t look alike, even though they were brothers. Remember, Athelstan, the Dunheveds were young, very resourceful, especially Thomas. He had a wise old head on very young shoulders.’

  ‘And their appearance?’ Athelstan insisted.

  ‘They were soft-featured, at least then. They both grew moustache and beard; you Dominicans are usually clean-shaven.’

  Athelstan nodded in agreement.

  ‘The Dunheveds were different, they deliberately copied the King with his well-clipped beard and moustache. On this they were insistent. When they were at court their hair was flipped and dressed. During our days in the forest, like all of us, they became extremely bedraggled.’

  ‘Any distinguishing marks?’

  ‘Not that I saw. You see, Athelstan, I was not truly of their coven, I was not one of their comrades. I was just one of the many dispossessed after the Despensers fell from power. The Dunheveds were different, devoted to their king, and around them grouped a small coterie of equally fervent supporters.’

  ‘And the women? Did you know someone called Agnes, a possible novice with the Poor Clare Order?’ Odo snorted with laughter but then paused, his head going abruptly back.

  ‘Lord save me, Athelstan,’ he breathed. ‘The Poor Clares, yes! They had a convent. I forget the name, somewhere between Stroud and Gloucester, I am sure the good nuns gave sustenance and support to the Dunheveds.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Brother, I cannot say. Just a rumour. You must remember we had places to hide, especially the Dunheveds. Now and again, if we were fortunate, good food would appear on our forest table and people would ask where it came from; that’s when I heard the rumour about the Poor Clares.’

  ‘And what happened to the Dunheved brothers?’

  ‘I fled. I wanted nothing more to do with them, it was becoming too dangerous. Whispered gossip said they slipped in and out of the country until they were caught in London and confined to Newgate. Of course, the Dominicans protested, but before anything could be done both brothers died of jail fever. I believe they are buried here, or so Roger said.’

  ‘Did Roger ever talk about having enemies here?’

  ‘No, he told me very little. He believed the Dominicans had done a great deal to hide their involvement in royal matters during the dark days of 1327.’

  ‘Were other Dominicans involved in the Dunheved conspiracy?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You see, the Dunheveds were from the friary in Oxfordshire, the very same friary who looked after and cared for the mortal remains of Edward’s great favourite, Peter Gaveston.’

  ‘They collected the favourite’s corpse, didn’t they, but he was killed in 1312,’ Athelstan said, then added, ‘the Dunheveds would have been too young to have been involved in that crisis, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Ah yes, but the Dunheveds were educated in that house. The cult of the King and his favourite was part of their training. Think of the Dunheved coven as a beehive. At the heart of this was a group totally dedicated to King Edward.’

  ‘Yes, you have said that. Why do you repeat it?’

  The old man crossed himself. ‘The Dunheveds were ruthless. I heard rumours, chitter-chatter, that anyone who threatened them disappeared. Some say murdered. I truly wonder what is the truth behind all of this, but more than that, I cannot say. Come, we will talk as we make our journey back.’

  Athelstan helped the old man up. He heard a sound from the pentile directly across the cloister garth. The pelican fountain blocked a complete view. Athelstan stared as he and Odo moved out of the shadow of the fountain. Narrowing his eyes, Athelstan glimpsed the window in the wall shaded by the pentile: its shutters now hung open. He saw swift movement, a shape in the darkness; there was a sharp click followed by the whirr of a crossbow bolt which shattered against the fountain.

  ‘Sweet Lord save us!’ Athelstan shouted even as he tried to push the startled Odo back behind the protection of the fountain. Again, that ominous whirring; Athelstan felt Odo plucked from his grasp. The old man stumbled back, face twisted in agony at the crossbow bolt buried deep in his chest. He tried to stagger towards Athelstan, arms going out, when a third bolt shattered his skull as it would soft fruit. The old man collapsed in a welter of blood, crumpling on to the grass. Athelstan, tears in his eyes, crouched behind the fountain and continued his cries for help.

  Doors opened, followed by the patter of sandalled feet. Prior Anselm and other brothers appeared and stopped in shock at the ghastly scene. Hugh, Matthias and John the gatekeeper hastened to help, along with others. Cranston, bellowing at the top of his voice, sword and dagger drawn, forced his way through. He resheathed his weapons and, one arm around Athelstan’s shoulder, guided the friar out of the petty cloisters and back to his chamber in the guesthouse. Once there, Cranston forced Athelstan to take generous mouthfuls from the miraculous wineskin. Athelstan thanked him, lay down on the bed and dozed for a while, half muttering prayers to calm his body and quieten his soul. When he awoke Cranston had been joined by Prior Anselm, who sat on a stool staring sadly at him.

  ‘Pax et bonum,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘God save us, it was the suddenness, the speed, the blood spattering in such a serene place. That old man, so venerable
, so full of life. A soldier who had survived so much. Then,’ Athelstan snapped his fingers, ‘his life gutted out as swiftly as a snuffler does candle flame.’ He swung his legs off the bed and sat head in hands, then he glanced up. Cranston, for all his bluster, looked shocked, even a little cowed. Athelstan drew a deep breath. ‘Father Prior, who knew Odo Brecon was in Blackfriars to meet me?’

  ‘You, me and no one else.’ The prior swallowed as if trying to catch his breath. ‘I told you. Benedicta took a message to Whitefriars. Two of the brothers there escorted Odo here. That was safe enough; after all, it is not far and the rebels have no cause against them. I was waiting to receive him. No one else knew or was informed. I brought Odo into the petty cloisters and fetched you. From what I know, Athelstan, the assassin entered the grain store which overlooks the petty cloisters. There is a window which opens up over the garth.’

  ‘Yes, I saw it. Odo and I sat behind the fountain which served as a defence. Once we moved, the assassin struck. Did he intend to kill me, Odo or both of us?’ Athelstan beat his fist against his leg. ‘God knows what is happening.’ He got to his feet. ‘Father Prior, I must see Fieschi and his companions now.’

  ‘Why?’ Anselm, clearly alarmed, also rose. ‘Athelstan, you are not going to accuse him of involvement in this attack? Remember, they are accredited envoys …’

  ‘No, Father Prior, I am going to accuse them of lying.’

  Fieschi, along with Cassian and Isidore, sat on one side of the council table; Athelstan, flanked by Cranston and Anselm, on the other. All three Italians had expressed their concern and shock at what had happened. They asked who the victim was and had the assassin escaped? Had the poor man’s death anything to do with their visit? Athelstan simply sat staring at them whilst the prior made non-committal replies and Cranston muttered beneath his breath. Fieschi seemed highly nervous; his round, smooth face had lost its perpetual jovial smile, whilst his two young companions seemed to be harder-faced, rather solemn, as if they were bracing themselves against the coming storm.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Fieschi forced a smile, ‘you are silent, yet I understand you asked for this meeting. Why?’

  ‘To see if you are lying.’

  Fieschi pushed himself away from the table as if making to rise and leave, his two companions likewise. Anselm brought them to order, slamming both hands down on to the table.

  ‘Brothers in Christ,’ Anselm grated, ‘you are guests here. You have been sent to complete a certain task. Outside the walls of our friary, violence prowls like some famished scavenger desperate to break in. Yet, in a sense, a worse predator has broken through. Murder has been committed in the hallowed precincts of a Dominican friary. Horrid deaths which, somehow, seem linked to your arrival here. I know,’ Anselm pulled a face, ‘one of your brethren has been a victim of the abomination lurking here. We mourn for him. We grieve for you. We deeply regret it. Nevertheless, the only way this can be resolved is through the truth. Pilate asked, “What is truth?” And, according to scripture, didn’t wait for an answer. We shall certainly wait to establish the truth. Brother Athelstan, do continue.’

  Fieschi and his companions, still bridling at Anselm’s bluntness, made themselves comfortable on their chairs.

  Athelstan leaned forward. ‘Brother Fieschi, I say this to you. I have only recently been brought in to investigate Edward II’s fate at Berkeley. Nevertheless, it is obvious to me that the King must have escaped. You and your companions are more skilled and learned in this matter than myself. Nevertheless, I ask myself, why all this investigation when the outcome is so obvious? Let us be frank. Your comrade Alberic believed this to be the case: he hid behind quotations from the psalms and enigmatic references to Lord Berkeley’s statement at the parliament of 1330, but Alberic accepted that Edward escaped from Berkeley, I am certain of it!’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘His Grace the King has petitioned the Holy Father in Rome for his support in the beatification of his ancestor. We know there is a rival Pope in Avignon. To a cynical observer,’ Athelstan paused for effect, ‘it might appear that our Holy Father is using this matter to gain the support of the English Crown.’

  ‘In what sense?’ Fieschi demanded. ‘Brother Athelstan, be warned you should be most prudent in your reply.’

  ‘Oh, I shall be more than prudent, learned Father. I shall be truthful and blunt. If you rule that Edward II did escape, the process of canonisation is brought to an end. However, if you state that, despite all the evidence available, Edward died at Berkeley, then the possible beatification is a matter to be considered. Should you decide on the latter course, despite the weight of evidence, the Papacy, and of course yourselves, will be the recipient of our king’s generosity and support. Pope Urban VIII would certainly treasure that, as would you.’

  ‘But why all this work, this public manifestation of what our king intends?’ Anselm asked.

  ‘Because Brother Fieschi and his companions here, and correct me if I am wrong, are being closely watched by Clement, the rival Pope in Avignon. He is supported by the king in France, is he not?’

  Fieschi just smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Ah,’ Anselm sighed, ‘I see what road you are taking.’

  ‘England and France are at war,’ Athelstan stated. ‘Pope Clement wishes to ridicule Pope Urban’s authority, whilst the French certainly do not want the English royal family to acquire a new saint. If Edward II is beatified, the Pope in Avignon, not to mention the French crown, will fiercely object. They will conduct their own investigation and do their utmost to bring this process into disrepute. Consequently, Brother Fieschi, you and your companions must prove that you have been thorough and rigorous. Nevertheless,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘the vexed question of Edward II possibly escaping is one the French and Pope Clement will seize on. They could use that to heap ridicule upon this new saint and all those who supported his canonisation.’

  ‘I agree with Athelstan,’ Anselm intervened. ‘What he says is both logical and obvious.’

  ‘Father Prior, Brother Athelstan, you are most correct.’

  Athelstan flinched at the smug smile on Fieschi’s face, realising the Italian had a ready answer.

  ‘First, I am the accredited envoy of the Holy Father to the English court. I do not care what that public sinner, that arch-heretic in Avignon, that false pope says or does. Nor do I care what the French king believes in. So, to answer your own question, undoubtedly Berkeley Castle was stormed and a prisoner was released, but that does not mean it was Edward II.’

  ‘A look-alike?’ Athelstan queried.

  ‘Very much so. My own uncle, who purportedly heard the confession of a man claiming to be Edward II, later had doubts and left a memorandum expressing such reservations.’ Fieschi spread his hands. ‘I can understand that. Remember, Athelstan, Edward II’s half-brother, Edmund, Earl of Kent, truly believed the King had escaped and was alive in Corfe Castle. The use of look-alikes in the mystery surrounding Edward II could have prompted one story after another, such as that mysterious figure, William the Welshman, whom Edward III met when he visited the Shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne.’

  ‘But those who stormed the castle and reached the prison, the Dunheveds and their coven, would be more knowledgeable,’ Athelstan insisted, recalling what Odo had told him.

  ‘Really?’ Cassian scoffed. ‘A man bearded and long-haired, well tutored in the speech and manners of the deposed king, a prisoner seized from a dark dungeon in the dead of night. Heaven knows, it might have been days, weeks before the Dunheveds realised they had been tricked. Nevertheless, Mortimer and Isabella realised the dangers, there would be no second attempt, so the real Edward II was murdered. How, we cannot say.’

  ‘And the look-alike, surely the Dunheveds would have killed him?’

  ‘Why, Brother Athelstan, surely it would be much better to let such an individual wander Europe creating confusion and sowing doubts?’ Isidore retorted. ‘So the legend took root, used by men such as Berkeley in their defence.
How can anyone be accused of regicide if the royal victim had allegedly escaped? That was a story Edward III, now free of his mother and Roger Mortimer, did not want to be publicly debated. The new king believed, as we do now, that his father had been murdered.’

  Athelstan stared at Fieschi and his companions. Their answer was too glib, yet a brilliant move across the chessboard. All the evidence pointing to Edward II escaping could be summarily rejected on the grounds that a mummer, a look-alike, had been freed, while the true king, enduring the pain and anguish of royal martyrdom, went nobly to his cruel death. In truth, these Dominicans didn’t really care about what had happened to Edward II. They were more determined to use the issue to persuade King Richard and his council to move closer to Pope Urban in Rome rather than the anti-pope Clement in Avignon. Accordingly Fieschi and his colleagues would deliberately mislead Athelstan, taking him up and down alleyways, throwing sops at him to quieten any criticism. Nevertheless, they had made one dire mistake and Athelstan was determined to use this to shatter their smug complacency.

  ‘Well, brother?’

  ‘I tell you this, my friend,’ Athelstan warned, ‘and you have already learnt to your cost that your investigations are not dusty theorising such as debating a problem of logic in the schools. You hope to prove, at least to those in power, that Edward II died a martyr’s death in Berkeley and so beatification is a possibility. However, we all now know to our cost that there are others, nameless at the moment, who, in my opinion, are resolutely opposed to your presence here and to what you are doing. Or it could be one person. Somebody who believes in that phrase from scripture, “Leave the dead to bury their dead.” He, or them, is warning you that the fate of Edward II and his burial are not be interfered with under pain of death.’

  Isidore would have replied but Fieschi put a restraining hand on his arm. He gazed sadly at Athelstan, lips parted, dark eyes sorrowful, almost as if he was on the brink of tears.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ his voice was just above a whisper, ‘I accept your warning. We are all in great danger, but what can be done?’