Mortimer was thoughtful. ‘Go back,’ he said. ‘Watch and send news to me of how he fares.’
When the messenger had gone he was thoughtful. No army Rhys ap Griffith could raise could have a chance against his and Isabella’s. It was not the thought of that petty force which disturbed him.
It was the growing support for the King throughout the country.
When he and Isabella had come to England it had seemed the entire country was behind them. Now there was murmuring. First the Dunhead affair. That had been a warning. If that had succeeded and Edward had established his head-quarters somewhere he might have rallied men to his cause. Thank God it had been frustrated before its fruition. And now this enemy was attempting to raise the one-time King’s stanclard in Wales. What if men started doing that all over the country?
It would not be wise to take an army to Wales and crush Rhys ap Griffith.
That would set others following his example. There was one thing which must be done and that quickly.
The reason for rebellion must be removed. Why would he not die? He had been subjected to the utmost discomfort; he had been almost starved, set above the charnel house at Berkeley, the stench which should have carried off a sick man by now.
But Edward lived on.
They had been gentle with him. Of course they had. It would be unwise for him to be seen to be murdered. Heaven knew what retribution would follow those who murdered a king.
They would be haunted by fear for the rest of their lives. Edward must die― but by natural causes.
He must be removed in a manner so skilful that all would believe he had passed naturally away.
But there must be no delay. They had prevaricated too long. They must act promptly now.
He would send for a man he knew— a man who had made a profession of murder, a man who was so skilled at the job that he could produce death by violence and none be able to detect a sign of it.
No, on second thoughts, he would not send for the man. This was too private a matter. He would go and see him and tell him what must be done.
Days merged into night and night into day. It was dark in his room and he was scarcely aware of the coming of the dawn. He had recovered a little. He had a purpose in life. They wanted him to die and he was determined not to.
They had done all they could to impair his health. The smell from below was so obnoxious that at first it had made him retch, but a man can grow accustomed to most things. He noticed it less now. He dreamed of banquets when he had sat side by side with Gaveston or Hugh and imagined that the foul food they sent him was some special dish which one of his dear boys had concocted for him.
He was not going to die to please them.
They watched him daily. He missed Berkeley, Berkeley would have changed towards him as Lancaster had. He and Berkeley would have become friends if left alone. He would have been given fur covers for his bed, a fur wrap, a glowing fire, a game of chess. They had known this so they had sent Berkeley away.
Maltravers and Gurney remained. There would never be any friendship between them and himself.
A dark shadow had entered the castle.
There was a third man. They called him William Ogle. What was there about that man? He walked softly with a cat-like tread. He laughed a great deal.
It was loud, mirthless laughter. It began to worry Edward.
When darkness fell he was aware of the shadows. He had nightmares in which William Ogle suddenly appeared in the darkness of the room.
Whenever Ogle was in the room, a strangeness came over Edward. His whole body felt as though it was covered in crawling ants. He shivered though his body felt on fire.
That was the effect William Ogle had on him.
Yet the man was respectful— more so than Maltravers and Gurney, calling him my lord and bowing now and then.
There is an evil about that man, thought Edward. I hope he will not stay here long.
Night. Footsteps in the corridor. Edward lay on his face breathing deeply.
The three men came into the room. One carried a lantern. They stood for a few seconds looking down on the sleeping man.
In the open doorway a brazier threw out a faint light and there was a smell of heating iron.
William Ogle was clearly in command.
He beckoned them close to him.
‘Is all ready?’ asked Maltravers.
Ogle nodded.
‘Remember. Your hands must not touch him. There must be no bruises.
Bring the table here and place it over him and hold it so that he cannot move.
Quickly now― while he sleeps. He must not be touched. Those are orders. No outward sign.’
Silently the two men lifted the table and placed it over Edward so that its sides pinned him to his bed.
He awoke and thought this was one of his nightmares.
He was naked. They had taken his robe. He caught a glimpse of Ogle approaching the bed and in his hand was a long spit glowing red hot.
And then such agony as no man had ever dreamed of. The red hot spit was inserted into his body.
He screamed violently as the fearful instrument of torture and death penetrated into his organs.
‘Think of Gaveston,’ cried Ogle. ‘Think of little Hugh. Think of them, my lord― Think of them―’
Edward tried to struggle but the table was pinning him down. His screams were so loud that they penetrated the thick walls of the castle. Everyone within those walls that night must have heard him.
‘He can’t last long,’ said Ogle, and even Maltravers and Gurney were shaken.
Edward was no longer screaming; his breath was coming in long tortured gasps.
‘His inside will be a charred mass by now,’ said Ogle. ‘And there will be no mark on his body for any to see. The spit is protected by horn so there will not be a hint of a burn even.’
He seemed proud of his handiwork.
Edward lay still now. Ogle withdrew the spit. There was no movement from the body as he did so.
‘Take off the table now,’ said Ogle. ‘There will be not a mark on his body.
No sign of violence, no bruise, no burns. None will know that his intestines have been burned away.’
The table was set down. Neither Maltravers nor Gurney wished to touch the man. It was the experienced murderer who did that. He turned him over and gave a gasp as he did so.
‘Bring the lantern nearer,’ he commanded.
The three men stood at the bedside, looking down on the still dead face on which was an expression of terror and agony such as they had never before witnessed.
The features were set in that horrible grimace of pain. Nothing could have more clearly proclaimed that Edward the Second had died the most terrible, violent and cruel death which man could devise.
‘He died in his sleep,’ the said, ‘It was a peaceful ending.’
There was no mark of violence anywhere on his body. But that expression on his face was clear for all who beheld it.
The three murderers conferred together.
‘You said there would be no sign,’ complaincd Maltravers.
‘How was I to know it would show on his face?’ grumbled Ogle.
He had only obeyed orders, he said. So had they all but they thought it wise to slip quietly out of the country and wait for the outcome.
The Abbot of Gloucester came to the castle and took the body away. It would remain in his care until a stately funeral could be arranged. Throughout the country the people were talking of their late King. What had happened to him? There was some mystery about his death.
Was his wife not living in adultery with her powerful and avaricious paramour?