The Great Revolt Read online

  ‘When Edward and Despenser fled to Wales after Isabella and Mortimer landed in Essex, they took a great treasure hoard with them, and according to Brother Roger, this has never been recovered. Of course the deposed king would know where it had been hidden. I admit that is just speculation. What is a fact is that you were betrayed, arrested and lodged in Newgate prison, though that proved to be no real danger. You would refuse to talk. You are both priests who could plead benefit of clergy and so invoke the full protection of both Holy Mother Church and, just as importantly, the power of the Dominican order. Prior Anselm here will bear witness to the fact that in those years Blackfriars, indeed the entire Dominican order in this kingdom, fervently supported Edward II and nourished a deep antagonism towards Isabella and Mortimer.

  ‘There is a chantry chapel here which boasts the insignia of a crown in chains, a reference to the captured Edward II, as well as the two-headed eagle of that king’s lover, Gaveston of Cornwall, which may well be your work, Thomas, or some other adherent of your coven. We wandered the cellars beneath Blackfriars,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘Master Ferrour and I. We found your secret shrine.’ He paused. He just wished he could provoke his adversaries into some sort of outburst. ‘Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,’ he murmured. ‘You taught me so well! To observe, to list, to analyse, to search for what is possible, to determine what is probable and so reach a conclusion.’

  ‘Little Brother Athelstan,’ the infirmarian retorted, ‘who would have thought …’

  ‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Who would have thought years ago that I would confront you like this, yet, and I am not being arrogant, you feared me, didn’t you? That’s why all three of you tried to kill me. But, I hurry on. Let us return to Newgate, Blackfriars and, above all, Brother Eadred, who plays a prominent role in all of this, though he has now gone to God.’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at the secretarius, who was not as calm as his brother, whilst Brother John also was becoming visibly agitated.

  ‘Brother Eadred,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was a member of the community here. A fervent supporter, I am sure, of Edward II. He was also chaplain in Newgate. I have held a similar post, as have others. Anyway, you were lodged there, but Eadred arranged for your escape and sent the corpses of two strangers – and God knows there would be enough of those in Newgate – garbed in Dominican robes, to be buried in God’s Acre here at Blackfriars. The published cause of death being what many die of in Newgate: jail fever, the sweating sickness. Anyway, the two corpses were brought back and swiftly disposed of. For all I know, in 1330 there were other Dominicans only too willing to cooperate with Eadred. Oh, and of course,’ Athelstan tapped the manuscripts before him, ‘Eadred will reappear in our story, but not for another twenty-eight years, when he became prior of our house in Oxford, and indeed, provincial of the entire Dominican order in this kingdom.’

  ‘You discovered all this?’ Ferrour asked, pouring himself a goblet of white wine. ‘Is that why you have been closeted …’

  ‘No,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Some of this work was begun by Alberic and developed by Brother Roger, who researched the secret life of the Dunheveds – and after 1330, it certainly did become very secret.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Eadred!’ He pointed to Ferrour, ‘You eavesdropped on Alberic the night he was murdered. He referred to St Alberto di Butrio, but what else did you hear?’

  ‘I thought he said “I dread.”’ Ferrour’s face creased into a smile. ‘It’s not that, it’s Eadred! Alberic was talking about the Dominican who helped the Dunheveds …’

  ‘Of course he was,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Anyway, Brother Thomas, after your escape from Newgate you rejoined your master. I suspect you spent a great deal of your time in Northern Italy. The years rolled by. Members of your group died. I am sure you dealt ruthlessly with any dissent or opposition. Now one member of your coven was the novice Agnes Tyrell from the nunnery of St Monica. She was probably infatuated with Thomas Dunheved, the passionate Dominican priest. You eventually rejected her. Agnes was left to her own devices. She slid, as so many poor women do, out of the light and into the shadows. I suspect you deserted her in Ghent or some other Flemish town, which turned her wits and seriously disturbed the humours of her mind. She eventually became the woman I knew, Pernel the Fleming, who chattered on about former days and tried to restore her youthful looks by constantly dyeing her hair. Eventually she took ship to London and settled in Southwark.’

  ‘I did not know her,’ the infirmarian retorted.

  ‘Yes, you did, and you killed her,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Now, poor Agnes’ life and the truth behind it does not concern us, but her death certainly does, I shall come back to that by and by. After 1330,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘you, your brother and this man,’ he gestured at the gatekeeper, ‘stayed abroad with the deposed king. God knows the actual details of your lives. But, Thomas Dunheved, I suggest you honed your skills as an apothecary, a herbalist and a leech, whilst your brother became a most experienced clerk. Of course your main concern was Edward of Caernarvon.’

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Ferrour interrupted, ‘if, as you allege, these three men spent decades in the company of a deposed king they so fervently supported, why did they not try to restore him to his dignity?’

  ‘First,’ Athelstan replied, ‘only these three men knew the true physical, mental and spiritual state of Edward of Caernarvon after he had been deposed and imprisoned for at least a year. Was he injured, maimed, seriously hurt in mind and body? Secondly, did he want to be restored? I don’t think so. He had been rejected by his wife and his elder son. Thirdly, do you really believe that the English crown would welcome him back with open arms? We all know that would not have happened. Thunder rages around the throne, and the Crown of England is fraught with all forms of danger. What reception would Edward of Caernarvon truly receive if he re-emerged at Westminster? Would he be dismissed as an imposter to be tried and executed? Would he be depicted as a madcap, fey-witted and moonstruck like Pernel? Would he be locked up in some hospital as a madman baying at the moon, where he would soon suffer some form of accident? Let us suppose that Edward of Caernarvon returned and was accepted for what he claimed to be. What then? England has its crowned king. Edward of Caernarvon would be rejected as a relict of the past. I suggest he would have gone back to prison where, I am sure, he would not have lived for long but would die suddenly of some fatal accident.’

  ‘True enough,’ Ferrour gestured. ‘I accept what you say.’

  ‘In 1357 matters changed. First,’ Athelstan emphasised the points on his fingers, ‘you had been absent from England for a long time, the reign of Mortimer was now dusty history. Secondly, Queen Isabella, the cause of Edward II’s downfall, was ageing. I am sure you and your master wanted to confront her for one last time. Thirdly, perhaps Edward of Caernarvon himself was sickly: by 1358 the deposed king would be past his seventieth year and must have been readying himself for death. Fourthly, in England, Brother Eadred, formerly chaplain in Newgate and secret ally of the Dunheveds, had become provincial of the entire Dominican order in this kingdom as well as prior of our house in Oxford, where Gaveston, Edward II’s great love, lies buried. It was time to return to England, and so you did.

  ‘You visited Castle Rising in Norfolk, where Isabella and Edward met for the last time. A truly chilling meeting. Two souls who, thirty years earlier, had set the kingdom alight with civil war. Isabella must have always, and secretly with great dread, anticipated that such a meeting might take place. She knew the truth about the burial at Gloucester, about what lay in that lead-lined coffin and the true ownership of the heart she carried in her silver casket. Now what happened in the solar at Castle Rising on that freezing cold night does not concern us, though I suspect you,’ Athelstan pointed at the infirmarian, ‘fed the Queen secret poison which later bore fruit in a prolonged illness which ended in her death.

  ‘After Castle Rising, you travelled to Oxford, where Prior Eadred welcomed you. Through subterfuge and trickery, you were admitted b
ack into the Dominican order as Brothers Hugh, Matthias and John, who had been “journeying abroad”, or so the entry reads. This was in the autumn of 1358. You settled down. No one would think it strange. Our order has houses all over Europe, its members travel, study, come and go …’

  ‘True, true,’ Prior Anselm murmured. ‘You, Brother Athelstan, are a case in point. You belong to Blackfriars but you live in Southwark and, as you know, people come and go – some you know, some you do not – and, of course,’ Anselm crossed himself, ‘Brother Eadred, as prior and provincial, had the authority and the means to ensure no questions were asked.’

  ‘No one,’ Athelstan declared, ‘would give you a second thought, nor about the poor man you lodged in the infirmary. Edward of Caernarvon had sickened. An old man, he died of his illness. Again, through the good offices of Prior Eadred, you had Edward’s corpse buried beneath the same flagstone which cover the mortal remains of Peter Gaveston, the one and only love of that most unfortunate king.’ Athelstan thumbed the manuscript before him. ‘It is all here. How the community at Oxford welcomed these three friars from abroad. How they admitted a dying man, a fourth member of the group, into the infirmary there. Little did people realise that, after all the hurling days, Edward II’s true last resting place was a Dominican friary in Oxfordshire.’

  ‘But if their shrine is in Oxford,’ Ferrour asked, ‘why not stay there?’

  ‘Because,’ Prior Anselm replied, jabbing a finger at the infirmarian, ‘they wanted to ensure no one became suspicious. They wanted to put some distance between themselves and their actual return to England, and again Eadred facilitated this. According to our records, all three came to Blackfriars in 1361 some twenty years ago. Such a move embedded them deeper back into our order. Moreover, Oxford is not far. A pleasant enough journey and again, if you scrutinise the records, the accused have made many return visits to Oxford.’

  ‘Oh, the beauty of it!’ Cranston intervened. ‘The Dunheveds were last seen publicly in 1326; true, they were detained for a very short while in 1330, but then disappeared again for almost thirty years. Appearances change, memories die …’

  The prior snapped his fingers. ‘Continue, Athelstan.’

  ‘So all is settled. Edward II disappears into history. A period of time best forgotten. Many of those involved in that hurling time are dead. Old causes vanish and new ones emerge. You have nothing to fear. All your secrets are safe until Procurator Fieschi and his delegation arrive in England and journey to London. For you, Fieschi and everyone and everything associated with him is anathema. You considered yourselves safe and secure. No one would either recognise or remember you for who you really are and what you were. After all, you had been absent from England for almost thirty years. Fifty-four years since the stirring times of Edward II’s possible escape. No one could pose any real danger to you. Even before 1326 the Dunheveds had really been courtiers, cut off from the mainstream of Dominican life. The passage of time, the death of contemporaries and, above all, the manifest certainty that the Dunheveds had died in Newgate and were buried in Blackfriars along with all the help and assistance provided by Eadred, more than sealed your secret, except,’ Athelstan held up a warning hand, ‘there was always the terrible danger of someone investigating the mysterious circumstances of Edward II’s death.’

  Athelstan fingered the cuff of his robe. ‘If you pluck the right loose thread and pull it hard enough the consequences can be very unexpected. Fieschi provoked the nightmare you always feared, of someone concentrating not so much on Edward II but on the men who freed him, especially the Dunheveds. I believe this was the path Alberic was pursuing with the help of Brother Roger. They found their loose thread: Brother Eadred. He was chaplain in Newgate at the time of the Dunheveds’ imprisonment there. He was also a member of Blackfriars and an adherent of Edward II. So what do we have, this friend of the Dunheveds, chaplain of Newgate, being responsible for sending back the corpses of the Dunheved brothers who, despite their youth and vigour, had died so suddenly in prison? We move on in years to discover that same Eadred becomes prior of the Dominican house in Oxford and provincial of our entire order in this kingdom. Another coincidence. A study of the records of our house in Oxford reveals the arrival of “three Dominicans from abroad”, as well as a fourth individual, who was part of their company, and who was placed in the infirmary there. The records describe how he sickened further, died and was buried beneath a particular flagstone in the friary church at Oxford.’

  Athelstan spread his hands. ‘At first, even second glance, there is little noteworthy here. However, if you look a little closer, if you try to map a way through the problem, if you have the knowledge to connect the Eadred of Newgate in 1327 to the Eadred of Oxford in 1358, then perhaps you begin to wonder. Did the Dunheveds really die in Newgate? Did Eadred arrange that, as he arranged it so many years later when he admitted people back into the order at our house in Oxford?’ Athelstan paused. ‘Strange,’ he mused.

  ‘What is?’ the infirmarian snapped.

  ‘I mentioned Castle Rising and your murderous midnight pilgrimage there. You never challenged or contradicted me. You never questioned me or showed any interest in how I knew of that incident.’

  ‘What does it matter? Just one more fable amongst many.’

  ‘Was that your reply to Brother Alberic? He stumbled on something, didn’t he, about the Dunheveds and their possible survival? He and Brother Roger truly believed Fieschi was looking in the wrong direction, the fate of Edward II, when they should have concentrated on the men who freed him. Did Alberic trap you, speak to you in Italian and elicit a response? All of you must be more than skilled in that tongue. All three of you visited him that fateful evening. You conversed in Italian, didn’t you? Not that it would matter, because you intended to kill Alberic and, in doing so, terrify Fieschi away from his constant and unnecessary prying.

  ‘In the end Alberic and his colleagues did not know who they were dealing with. They totally underestimated you and your fanatical loyalty, your sheer ruthlessness. They thought they were in the company of fellow Dominicans, when in fact they were in a pack of ravenous wolves. However, to go back to the charge, you visited Brother Alberic. God knows what was discussed but I wager Alberic was suspicious. The confrontation with him would not have taken long. Master Ferrour here attempted to visit Alberic but heard voices speaking in Italian as well as a reference to the abbey of Sancto Alberto di Butrio and Eadred. He then decided to leave.’

  ‘Alberic was young, strong, a former soldier,’ the Gatekeeper declared, seemingly recovering from his shock. Athelstan noticed the change, as if the true soul of this man was emerging to confront the deadly challenge he faced. He was no longer the jovial old lay brother; his eyes now blazed with anger, his face was red, lips curled, mouth snarling. Athelstan quietly wondered if the gatekeeper was the one he could break first. ‘Moreover,’ the gatekeeper snarled, ‘Alberic’s chamber was locked and barred. Are you saying we now possess miraculous powers to pass through wood and stone?’

  ‘No, but you do have a murderous energy. True, the problem you pose is twofold. First, how can a man like Alberic be so easily overcome without any sign of resistance on his part? Secondly, how could his assassins leave a chamber locked and barred from within? The solution depends on speed and, in this case, a fortuitous accident which only deepened the mystery.’

  Athelstan rose. ‘Master Ferrour, could you help me, please?’ Thibault’s man got to his feet. Athelstan asked him to step away from the table, which he did. ‘If I lunge like this,’ Athelstan demonstrated, thrusting his hand towards Ferrour’s chest, which the man blocked as he had before, ‘I am checked, I am hindered but,’ Athelstan beckoned Flaxwith and Cranston to join him, ‘if Sir John and his noble bailiff seize Master Ferrour’s arms swiftly, suddenly, then I lunge, driving a dagger deep into his chest, that is a different matter. Sir John, Master Flaxwith, please.’ Each man seized a wrist. Ferrour struggled but Athelstan quickly proved how he co
uld easily stab his victim.

  ‘Remember,’ Athelstan stepped back, gesturing at Ferrour to be released, ‘our good friend here expected to be seized. Even so, I was successful. Brother Alberic, however, never did, which is how he was murdered. Each wrist was seized by one of you whilst a third struck swiftly with a dagger. I gather from Sir John that in the twilight world of London’s wolfsheads, sudden murders are often carried out in such a fashion, two accomplices seizing the victim’s arms, making him vulnerable to an abrupt thrust to the heart by a third.’

  ‘And I suppose we left, leaving the door bolted and barred from within,’ the infirmarian scoffed.

  ‘For you that was most fortuitous. You stab your victim, you withdraw the dagger, it drops to the floor and you immediately leave the chamber. Your main concern is to get out without being seen. You do so leaving your victim. Alberic is in shock, swaying on his feet, not yet fully aware that he has received his death wound. I saw Sudbury on Tower Hill trying to rise even though he had received the cruellest blow from a cleaver to the back of his head. Sir John, Master Ferrour, I appeal to you and others, haven’t you seen men in battle who continue to walk, to fight, even though mortally wounded?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Cranston agreed. ‘I have seen and heard of men losing a hand or arm, receiving a death thrust to the chest or belly, and still fighting on until they collapse.’

  Ferrour and Flaxwith murmured their agreement.

  ‘So it was here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Remember, Alberic was once a soldier. Inside that chamber he stands shocked and fearful, doing the only thing he can, or thinks he can do, to protect himself. He turns the key and pulls across the bolts. Behind that door your victim is dying. He turns away, staggers forward and collapses. He has been silenced. The murderous mystery deepens and you are set on your path of destruction.’