sharpness of the features and the sunken cheeks. These would be even more readily accepted for the corpse had been embalmed and above ground for two months before burial. In a word, people believed what they came to see, a dead king laid out for burial. How the Earl of Kent saw through the deception is unknown; the chronicle of St Paul’s says that certain men “informed” him, but his doubts may well have begun when he paid his last respects to “Edward’s” corpse at Gloucester.
Isabella must have found out about these doubts and enticed Kent into treason and summary execution by feeding him false information about Edward II’s whereabouts. I believe she would have eventually got rid of Guerney, Maltravers and Ockle. I know she tried to kill me, and will probably try again. She realizes that I saw through her tissue of lies. I do not even believe her story about the embalmed heart. I suspect it belonged to Mortimer, not Edward II.
Of course, Edward may have been recaptured and secretly killed, but I think not. First, Mortimer confessed to Orleton that he had not murdered Edward II. Secondly, Isabella’s conduct proves that her husband not only escaped but may still be alive and well. She hides in a secluded fortress and hires a private army to protect her from a vengeful husband. Every day must be a nightmare, wondering what horror stalks the wet dark woods of Norfolk.
A few things still puzzle me. Does our present king know about this? I think he suspects but how did he find out? And why is the matter now so urgent and secretive? After all, the world believes that Edward II was killed over fifteen years ago and now lies rotting under his marble tomb at Gloucester. All I do know is that the great ones of this world do not like their secrets revealed. To be frank, I fear for my own safety, and I am only going to reveal all I know when the circumstances favour it.
A bizarre story, dear Richard, but I do believe that Edward II escaped from Berkeley and I intend to find out why and what happened to him. I have other tasks to accomplish. I cannot tell you what they are, for as a churchman you would surely object. I beseech you to keep this quiet, even from your confessor. I intend to send this and future letters concealed in personal gifts for you. My messengers are always trustworthy men, well paid for their services. I hope you do not object. Your knowing about what I do is a guarantee for my own safety. God keep you, Richard, and pray for me, for I feel as if I sorely need it. Written at Cambridge, 29 May, 1346.
Letter Eight
Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, Prior of Croyland Abbey, greetings. I reached Gloucester a week after leaving Cambridge and, apart from dropping off my horse through sheer fatigue, losing my way and, on one occasion, riding for my life from a group of outlaws, my journey was fairly uneventful. As the poet sang, “Sumer is i-cumen,” the countryside lay like the garden of Eden and I momentarily forgot Kate’s death, Michael the Scot and even the grim task which lay before me.
When I reached Gloucester, I lodged at the Cross Keys, a small tavern in one of the many back streets near the city’s west gate. I paid for a month’s board, arranged for the stabling of my horse and then once more visited the cathedral. I devoted particular attention to the position of Edward II’s tomb which lies on the left side of the high altar, about four roods in distance from the great north wall. I went outside and was relieved to find that the exterior of the north wall facing the tomb was not only free of other buildings, but fringed by an overgrown cemetery strewn with clipped stone crosses and choked with weeds and briar bushes. Using the last window of the north wall as a bearing, I measured out ten paces to a particularly dense clump of gorse and judged that I was standing directly opposite the tomb. I repeated the whole performance a number of times till I was certain and then returned to the Cross
Isabella must have found out about these doubts and enticed Kent into treason and summary execution by feeding him false information about Edward II’s whereabouts. I believe she would have eventually got rid of Guerney, Maltravers and Ockle. I know she tried to kill me, and will probably try again. She realizes that I saw through her tissue of lies. I do not even believe her story about the embalmed heart. I suspect it belonged to Mortimer, not Edward II.
Of course, Edward may have been recaptured and secretly killed, but I think not. First, Mortimer confessed to Orleton that he had not murdered Edward II. Secondly, Isabella’s conduct proves that her husband not only escaped but may still be alive and well. She hides in a secluded fortress and hires a private army to protect her from a vengeful husband. Every day must be a nightmare, wondering what horror stalks the wet dark woods of Norfolk.
A few things still puzzle me. Does our present king know about this? I think he suspects but how did he find out? And why is the matter now so urgent and secretive? After all, the world believes that Edward II was killed over fifteen years ago and now lies rotting under his marble tomb at Gloucester. All I do know is that the great ones of this world do not like their secrets revealed. To be frank, I fear for my own safety, and I am only going to reveal all I know when the circumstances favour it.
A bizarre story, dear Richard, but I do believe that Edward II escaped from Berkeley and I intend to find out why and what happened to him. I have other tasks to accomplish. I cannot tell you what they are, for as a churchman you would surely object. I beseech you to keep this quiet, even from your confessor. I intend to send this and future letters concealed in personal gifts for you. My messengers are always trustworthy men, well paid for their services. I hope you do not object. Your knowing about what I do is a guarantee for my own safety. God keep you, Richard, and pray for me, for I feel as if I sorely need it. Written at Cambridge, 29 May, 1346.
Letter Eight
Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, Prior of Croyland Abbey, greetings. I reached Gloucester a week after leaving Cambridge and, apart from dropping off my horse through sheer fatigue, losing my way and, on one occasion, riding for my life from a group of outlaws, my journey was fairly uneventful. As the poet sang, “Sumer is i-cumen,” the countryside lay like the garden of Eden and I momentarily forgot Kate’s death, Michael the Scot and even the grim task which lay before me.
When I reached Gloucester, I lodged at the Cross Keys, a small tavern in one of the many back streets near the city’s west gate. I paid for a month’s board, arranged for the stabling of my horse and then once more visited the cathedral. I devoted particular attention to the position of Edward II’s tomb which lies on the left side of the high altar, about four roods in distance from the great north wall. I went outside and was relieved to find that the exterior of the north wall facing the tomb was not only free of other buildings, but fringed by an overgrown cemetery strewn with clipped stone crosses and choked with weeds and briar bushes. Using the last window of the north wall as a bearing, I measured out ten paces to a particularly dense clump of gorse and judged that I was standing directly opposite the tomb. I repeated the whole performance a number of times till I was certain and then returned to the Cross
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