Chapter 35

Berkeley Castle

Berkeley Castle, which had been owned by the Berkeley family since the 11th century, nestled amidst a woods in the southern part of Gloucestershire. From its turrets Bristol Channel could be viewed and the hazy waters of the River Severn. The castle's proximity to the channel made rescue attempts by water a constant threat. As fall approached, rumors abounded that yet another plan was being hatched to free Edward Caernarvon and his half-brother. Roger Mortimer sent out spies to ascertain the truth behind the rumors. Increasingly he cursed his royal prisoners, who, even while in captivity and stripped of their power, plagued him.

The Templar monastery, where Christ's shroud was kept, was also located in Gloucestershire. As Richard had contemplated his return to the outside world, he'd known his continued presence constituted a threat. The monastery was not so secluded that it could not be found. What if the shroud fell into Mortimer's hands? That possibility, plus Richard's desire to tie up the loose ends of his life, had caused him to surrender himself at Berkeley Castle.

Richard's quarters were small and none too clean, but he counted himself content. Meditation and prayer took up much of his time and while his warden, Thomas Berkeley, was married to Mortimer's daughter, he was nevertheless kind.

Though Richard sensed his death drawing near, he accepted, even embraced, that knowledge. With eternity beckoning, how could his present life hold any allure? Death only opened the door to Jesus. From the moment he'd touched the shroud the hatred, ambitions, guilt, self-loathing—all the emotions that had been so much a part of him—had been replaced by love, the Savior's love for him.

Richard could not explain the mechanics of his spiritual transformation; he only knew that it had happened. Initially, he'd feared that the intensity of his experience would fade, that the old Richard who had died would be resurrected. That had not happened.

Only three people I would once again see. Edward, Phillip, and Maria. Edward because he is my brother, Phillip to obtain his forgiveness, and Maria? Because I loved her most of all.

* * *

September 17, 1327. From his narrow window, Richard glimpsed the sight of distant oaks beginning to flaunt the boldness of fall. This morning he'd spotted his brother walking in the courtyard of Berkeley's inner ward, which was shaped similar to a college quadrangle. Even a hundred feet away, Edward of Caernarvon appeared a broken man. The cut of his black serge was mean and cheap; the slump to his shoulders spoke more eloquently than a thousand words as to his sorry pass.

Richard heard a rattle of keys, a scraping in the lock. After knocking, Thomas Berkeley poked his head inside. "I am here to tell you I am leaving for a few days. I have been called away on business to Chepstow."

Berkeley's eyes could not meet Richard's. Something in his voice warned of danger. "What manner of business, Sir Tom?"

"I am unsure. 'Tis an emergency, or so I've been told." Berkeley ducked his head, pretending great interest in the hem of his tunic sleeve. "I heard Lord Thomas Gurney say that they might soon allow you to see your brother."

"I thank you for your past kindnesses. May God keep you on your journey."

Thomas hesitated, then, after looking over his shoulder, approached Richard. "Mortimer has uncovered another plot. The Welshman, Rhys ap Gruffyd, was scheming with several magnates to rescue you and your brother and remove you by means of the channel. Everything was set when Mortimer's lieutenant in North Wales sent word. I do not think Mortimer will risk another escape attempt."

Richard turned his eyes to the silver crucifix.

"Nor do I."

* * *

With Thomas Berkeley's departure, Richard and Edward were left at the mercy of keepers hand-picked by Mortimer—Sirs Gurney, Ogle, and Berkeley's brother-in-law, John Maltrever. Secretive faces appeared at the earl's door with an occasional tray of tasteless food. Thomas Gurney sometimes enjoyed taunting Richard, but he too, appeared preoccupied. Among his infrequent jibes, however, he relayed one interesting bit of information.

"Your brother has been removed to another part of Berkeley. To a room more in keeping with his changing station." The underlying insinuation of Gurney's words was disturbing.

"When will you let me see him?" Richard had asked the question a hundred times previously and always received the same negative response.

This day, however, Gurney grinned. "Soon, Bastard, soon!"

Richard turned away to kneel before the silver cross.

Grant me strength, Lord, to endure, he silently prayed. Death he did not mind. But pain—Richard was still enough a part of this world to be frightened by the very possibility.

* * *

September 21. Evil stalked Berkeley's halls. Richard sensed its presence as surely as the chill breath of darkness seeping through the castle walls. He had no doubt he and Edward would be murdered, perhaps this very night. On his cot, Richard slid in and out of terrifying dreams. Awake he tensed at the slightest sound—the baying of a hound below, the scampering of an invisible rat across the room.

Footsteps in the passageway. Jerking upright, Richard reached instinctively for a sword that was no longer at his side. Guttural voices stopped outside the door; he heard the click of a key. Thomas Gurney stepped into the room. Behind him huddled Ogle and Maltrever, carrying torches, their mouths set in ugly slashes.

"Come, Bastard," said Gurney. "'Tis time to see your brother."

Warily, Richard arose. He felt certain they were not taking him to Edward, but to his own death. Suddenly, every instinct cried to fight, to break for freedom. Better to die with a blade to the back than strapped to the rack, or enduring the hand-crushing pillliwinks.

Richard inhaled deeply and a calmness descended; a gentling touch soothed away his fears.

He followed his jailers along narrow vices and ill-lit passages, having no clear idea where he was, where they might be headed. Of one thing Richard was certain, though—the increasing stench. A rotten smell that had at first soured in his nostrils, and now revolted his stomach, all his senses.

When the fetor grew so overpowering that Richard swallowed back the urge to vomit, they reached their destination. Maltrever unlocked a narrow door and motioned him inside. Richard stepped into a tiny room. First he noticed a rude table scattered with remnants of a meal, and beyond, a crucifix attached to the rough stone wall. A fire blazed in a narrow fireplace; a poker rested, tip inward, among the glowing coals. In one corner he spied a gaping pit.

The dungeon, as it was called, was Berkeley's charnel house. Here were thrown the rotting carcasses of cattle, bones, entrails, and moldering, maggot-ridden heaps of garbage. The odor emanating from the pit literally made Richard's eyes water. Fear knotted his stomach. Sometimes prisoners of low birth were thrown in charnel houses and left to die. If such was his jailers' intent, they would have to kill him now. He'd never allow them to toss him down that hellhole.

When Richard turned to Gurney, his eyes caught a figure slumped on a cot thrust against a shadowy wall. The man's head rested in his hands.

"Brother!"

Edward raised his eyes. The deposed king's face was sunken, his unkempt beard looked as if it had been hacked with sheep shears. Tattered serge clung to shoulders that had once worn velvets and brocades, matted hair to a forehead that had worn the crown of England. It was Edward's eyes, though, that had most changed. Vacant, hopeless eyes, red-rimmed, staring. Eyes that did not immediately recognize Richard. Then, with a strangled cry, he rose. Immediately, Richard was at his side. They embraced.

"Oh, Ned!" Richard whispered, drawing back. "What have they done to you?"

Edward's eyes misted; he clung to his brother. "They have been so cruel. Isabella used to write to me at Kenilworth, you know, and send me fine clothes. But now I never hear from anyone." He choked back a sob. "When they captured me they never let me stay in one place. They made me shave with ditch water brought to me in a rusted helm. They made me sit in an ant heap."

Edward buried his face against Richard's neck. Richard patted his back, struggling to breathe in the fetid closeness and warmth of the room, to ignore his brother's rags and filthy hair, the lice-ridden bedcovers piled atop his sagging bed.

"I can see but a tiny patch of courtyard with slimy paving stones and crumbling wall," continued Edward. "They haven't let me walk in days, and the stench, I swear, is killing me by inches." Pleading eyes met Richard's own. "Help me, Dickon," he whispered, reverting to a nickname unused for twenty years.

"Come!" Richard eased Edward down on the rude bed and sat beside him. Stroking his arm, Richard murmured soothing nonsense that seemed to momentarily calm his brother.

"Now I'm here, and naught will harm thee. I promise you." Empty words—if Edward knew how empty...

"Here, drink this." Standing over him, Thomas Gurney held out a cup of wine.

Richard shook his head. Edward shrank against him. His hands clawed Richard's forearm. The blackguards had physically abused his brother, of that he was certain. What had they done to so reduce a strong-willed, physically powerful man to little more than a sniveling boy?

Gurney shoved the cup in Richard's face.

"Nay!" Richard slapped away his hand. "Leave us be!"

Red wine splashed across Gurney's fingers, and stained his light-colored sleeve. "Drink, Bastard! Or I'll pour it down your treasonous throat."

Richard's head jerked up; his eyes probed Gurney's own. The wine contained something—a sleeping draught, poison, what? Would they drug him to unconsciousness before killing Edward, and then perform a second murder? One thing was certain. His jailers did not intend for either man to view another dawn.

"Drink, Dickon. They gave me a nice meal tonight, and the wine tasted like what we used to enjoy at court..."

Edward's voice trailed away. He wiped his nose on a filthy sleeve.

Angry words threatened to erupt on Richard's tongue. How could these men do this to their king, to his brother? Again the invisible restraining hand. Hadn't they done worse to Jesus?

The wine cup was now less than half filled. Richard gulped down the contents and threw the empty cup against the wall opposite the charnel shaft.

Gurney laughed low in his throat.

Poison. God grant that the end is quick.

"Now leave me be with my brother." He slipped his arm around Edward's shoulder.

"You know what they did to Hugh, don't you, Dickon? They daily tell me, over and over, torment me with the memory of his execution."

"Do not think on him. He is long in the arms of the Savior."

"I did try to rule well, I did." Edward began sobbing. "Dickon, Dickon, how did we come to this?"

Richard had no answers. He opened his mouth to make reply when the room suddenly pitched downward; the hearth fire seemed to burn in his stomach. The floor leapt upward. Righted.

"I would have been happy to have plowed the earth and designed ships, to have been a gentleman farmer or a yeoman. I did not ask to be king of England."

Richard stumbled to his feet, lurched forward. He must reach the cross on the opposite side of the room, must make ready for his journey to his Savior.

"Dickon!"

Staggering to the cross, Richard managed to kneel. The room pitched again. Knives stabbed his stomach. He slumped on his side.

Noise, movement. The dinner table was suddenly in mid-air. Plates fell, food splattered, utensils bounced, goblets shattered. Ogle and Maltrever were holding the table atop a thrashing Edward, pinioning him to the bed.

Richard tried to rise but could not move. The guardroom wavered, swam. He saw double. He blinked, and as his vision cleared, he saw Edward's flailing legs and arms, Gurney hurrying from the fire, a long pipe made of horn in one hand, a glowing poker in the other.

"No! No!" Did the scream remain locked inside? Pain sliced Richard's stomach, a thousand times fiercer than before. He was retching; he could barely lift his head above his own vomit. Sweat chilled his forehead; he began to tremble. Again, he tried to stand. He must stop Gurney.

Gurney bent over Edward, threw back his gown. Edward, crying, struggling; Maltrever and Ogle throwing all their weight to the table to keep him trapped.

Gurney jammed the horn against Edward's twisting buttocks. Into the horn he thrust the iron-tipped poker. A brutal shove and Edward was screaming, screaming. The smell of burning flesh cut above the charnel stench. Richard sucked the smell of his brother's burning insides into his lungs as he retched again. Screams shattered his eardrums, but Richard could not discern whether they were Edward's or his own.