Free The Death of a King by Paul C. Doherty Page B

approached him after the meeting, and I invited him to sup with me. He was puffed out like a farm cockerel with his mission to London. He damned the wars and he damned Isabella, through whom the king could claim the throne of France and so turn Europe from the Hook of Holland to the Pyrenees into one vast battlefield.
    “It’s all right for the king,” he confided to me, blowing a gale of ale fumes into my face, “riding out to do battle. But who profits? The seas are plagued with pirates. Markets are empty. The fields are stripped of corn and beasts, as well as the men who tend them. The roads are the prey of ex-soldiers, vagabonds and landless peasants. The king should stay at home, keep the peace and live off his own. The French crown, Paris, even France itself, not one or all of them together are worth the misery these wars have brought.”
    The mayor’s complaints dominated our meal, but it was a welcome change to my own fears and worries. The next day I left him and his little town, surprised at such vehemence, but on my journey through the countryside, I saw what he meant. Fields which should have been ploughed lay brown and fallow. Meadows were devoid of livestock. Villages were full of women and old men while roving bands of outlaws terrorised the countryside. Twice I was attacked with stones and arrows and I only escaped unscathed due to being mounted.
    Five days after leaving Dorchester, I reached Yeovil in Somerset, where I learnt to my delight that the sheriff was Sir Thomas Tweng, who was busy holding the shire court at Taunton Castle. You have probably never heard of Sir Thomas, Richard. He is a simple country knight but a close friend of the king and one of his confidants in the 1330 plot to overthrow Mortimer. If anyone knew anything about Guerney and Maltravers, it would be Sir Thomas. I hurried on to Taunton and arrived exhausted at The Corn Stook which lies on the outskirts of the town, virtually under the huge walls of the great castle.
    The following morning I hired one of the ostlers to take a message up to the castle, begging for immediate audience with Sir Thomas on business concerning the king. The ostler returned to inform me that he had delivered my message to the captain of the morning watch, and so I sat back and waited. The day passed and evening found me still sitting near the inn fire, anxious for a summons or a reply. I had almost despaired when the door of the inn was thrown open as a huge, pot-bellied man swept in. The landlord’s subservient attitude told me that this was Tweng. He ignored the bobbing servants and swung his gaze around the room and squinted at me through the poor light.
    “Beche,” he bellowed, “are you the damned clerk who wants to see me?”
    I nodded and rose to meet him. “Sit down, man,” he rumbled, as he slumped into the chair opposite me, his huge frame filling it to overflowing. He mopped a huge, bald head and inspected me intently.
    “My apologies for so tardy a reply to your message,” he shouted, for all to hear. “That is why I came to see you myself, only too glad to get out of that damned, stuffy castle. Well,” he continued, unfastening the clasps of his cloak, “what can I do for you?”
    He waved away my letters of introduction and so I told him about my investigations and my need for further information about Edward II’s murderers, Guerney, Maltravers and Ockle.
    “The first two were Somerset knights,” I pointed out, “hence my presence in Taunton.”
    Tweng pursed his lips and played with the hilt of his sword.
    “Maltravers and Ockle,” he said, “fled to Germany and have never been traced. Guerney is dead. He died ten years ago while I was bringing him from Italy.”
    I almost dropped with surprise. “You mean to say,” I exclaimed, “that one of the murderers was found? Did he confess? Why did the king not tell me?”
    “Tush, man,” Tweng replied, “there’s no need to get excited. True,” Tweng nodded, “Guerney