In The Shadow of the Oak

An Edward II Story

Note: This is a fictional piece exploring a potential escape and eventual manhunt for Edward II if he did indeed survive 1327. This is a part of

Medieval Musings

short story tribute to the late author, CJ Sansom.

Berkeley Castle - 1327

The bar on the door slammed, jolting Edward from his prayers.

“My Lord,” Maltravers ventured.

Edward crossed his chest and used the rough edge of the table to push himself upright. The personal altar wobbled on the surface under the weight of his body. The months in prison had done little to detract from his great physique. Even though Edward was over forty, he remained trim. Silver hairs had begun to kiss his temple and glint in his beard. The lines around his light eyes had deepened, but the past few years had more responsibility for those than his years did.

Begrudgingly, he faced the interrupter. With little effort at interest, he queried the man. “Yes?”

“I have news.”

Edward felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He hoped one of his beloved children wasn’t ill. He had lost his illegitimate son, Adam, to dysentery five years ago on a campaign against Scotland. The anguish still sat heavy in his chest. His beloved children were never far from his thoughts and always in his prayers.

“I have come to notify you that you have died.”

He gave the man a hard look. “As you see, Maltravers, I am in excellent health.”

“You are, but the page boy is not.”

“You plan to quarantine me with a fatal illness in order to exact my demise.”

A smile flashed across his face. “No, Edward. I may be rebellious, but I am no regicide.”

“I am certain my death is what Mortimer prays for nightly.”

“No doubt he does. It would be convenient. Particularly in light of the recent escape attempts.”

“I cannot help if I, an anointed king, still inspire loyalty.”

“Your son has been anointed. You,” he spat, “Threw your crown away on infatuation.”

The former king closed his eyes. The thought of his beloved’s murder, the absence of his family, and the loss of his crown hit him in successive waves.

“My Lord Mortimer may despise you, but even he is not willing to murder his former friend.”

Edward allowed a small exhale.

“Your death will be announced as soon as the boy dies. The physician has been and doubts he has long to live.”

“If he doesn’t expire?”

“Christ’s nails! It's 1327. Someone will die of something sooner than later,” Maltravers answered with exasperation. “Whoever drops dead next will take your place in the grave… Unless you’d rather that would be you.” A violent glee flashed across his coal black eyes.

Edward held up his hands. “This is a better plan.”

“Sir Berkeley and I thought so. We’ve no wish for your blood to be on his hands.”

“Is it to be believed?”

He rubbed his index finger against his jaw. “I’ve put out that there is illness in the castle. The physician has been noted coming and going. Even Berkeley has removed himself under the pretense of keeping his pregnant wife safe from the infection that rages here.”

Edward stroked his ragged beard. He knew that Maltravers was no fool, much less so Berkeley. “Where do I go?”

“To Corfe.” Maltravers responded. “I have returned from visiting my cousin there.”

“Pecche is still Constable?”

“Mortimer saw little reason to remove him, given that he is family to me, a loyal adherent to the new King Edward.”

Edward exhaled deeply at his son’s name. King. His son was king. “When?”

“Tonight. The new moon will provide additional cover.”

“But the autumnal equinox, the tidal bores…”

“We sail at low tide and allow the strength of the water to carry us out to the sea. We can hardly transport a dead man by land.”

Edward’s last new moon excursion from Wales had been less successful. The harsh tides and the weather had beaten the party back to Llantrisant, where they were captured. Of the eight men who had stayed loyal, three had met their maker and the others held tenuous pardons written by his own son or more likely signed by that damned Mortimer. The former king cradled his head in his hands. “Merciful Father,” he uttered.

Maltravers shifted his stance. “Is that an agreement?”

The long golden waves shielded his face, but Edward’s head bobbed in nearly imperceptible assent.

“Good.” Maltravers dropped a bundle onto the floor of the cell with a thud. “Dress warmly. When Compline rings, a knight will come for you. Ask him when the sun shines. If he answers ‘November,’ admit him. Only November, mind you.”

Edward nodded—the birth month of the king and his beloved son.

The afternoon passed slowly. The window faced east, making the hour difficult to discern. When Edward saw the golden rays of sunset illuminate the glazing across the inner ward, he opened the bundle. A dagger tumbled out. The former king gently lifted the blade. Only a month prior, several faithful adherents had sprung him from this very room. But the band was quickly apprehended, and he was returned to the castle. Now, Maltravers trusted him enough to arm him. Maybe he wouldn’t be murdered in the darkness. Edward dressed carefully, tucking the dagger into his belt and arranging the folds of the surcoat to conceal the weapon. Better to be on guard.

He waited as darkness fell. A soft tap came from the door.

“My Lord?”

Edward held his breath, trying to discern the voice.

“Sir? Are you there?”

Cat-like, Edward moved behind the door, his fist curled around the dagger handle, form hidden in the dark. He flipped the latch, and to his amazement, the door swung open.

A boy who couldn’t be more than eighteen blanched at the sight of him. What was Maltravers thinking, sending a chit of a lad? Edward’s hand loosened on the blade. “The sun?”

“November,” he whispered.

“Aye.” The bell began to toll. “Compline. Let’s go.”

The boy nodded. Edward slipped out the door behind him and followed him silently down the deserted hallway. Dull conversation thrummed below. A tilt of the boy’s hood indicated a narrow stairwell. Descending slowly so as not to slip in the darkness, the pair made it to the ground floor without detection.

Edward breathed, “How will we get across the ward?”

The boy shook his head and pointed the opposite direction. “The pantry.”

A pair of voices were coming towards them. Edward grabbed him and pulled him back into the stairs. Two maids went past carrying jugs of wine. As their lamplight faded away, he muttered, “Let’s go.”

They made it to the buttery undetected. The boy motioned to Edward to stay back as he gripped the door.

“Halt!” A voice pierced the evening air.

A hulking mass emerged from the shadows. “Where do you think you are going?” His voice was harsh, grated by local spirits.

The boy sank back against the wall in terror. The menace drew a dagger from his cloak, rattling the keys on his belt. “I asked you, where are you going?”

But the man had not seen Edward, lurking in the shadows. The former king lowered his stance and drew his dagger. The man had his back turned, blade raised, ready to end the boy. Edward pounced, driving the knife deep into the man. His placement precluded any noise, and the body landed with a thud on the floor. The boy’s eyes widened, a mixture of fear and adoration. Edward bowed low and murmured the last rites. Wiping the blade on the fallen man’s cloak, he whispered “May you enjoy the last rites of kingship.”

Standing, he squared on the boy. “Name.”

His eyes darted about the pantry.

“If we are to go forward, I need something to call you other than Boy.”

“Hal,” he stuttered. “My friends call me Hal.”

“I hope you will count me a friend.”

Hal nodded shyly.

“Comen” Edward wrenched open the door.

Hal’s eyes widened. “You speak English?”

“Yis. Safer than French for two yeomen. Which way?”

“Right, around the base of the wall. The dinghy is in the stream to the south of the castle.”

“Aye.”

Edward followed the lad out the door. The evening was cool, and a light mist had settled over the hillside. The only illumination came from the glow of the castle fires. The moon was a scant sliver. A wisp of a cloud blanketed the edge. If only the clouds would fully cover the sky. Thankfully, the long grass didn’t crackle underfoot, still damp from recent rain. Edward kept his eyes honed in on the nearly invisible form of Hal. Only his pale hand on the stone base of the curtain wall gave him away.

A scream pierced the night sky. Someone had discovered the dead porter.

“Tītly.” The boy picked up the pace in response. The flurry of activity of the castle guard covered the sound of their movement.

A voice came from overhead. “Christ! Where is the prisoner?” Fear gripped Edward. He grabbed Hal’s arm to stop him. That distinctive, gravely tone could only belong to Thomas Gurney. Did Maltravers set them up?

“I don’t know my Lord. A meal was taken to him not an hour ago.”

“He won’t have gotten far,” Thomas answered gleefully. “Find him. Dead or alive. This ends tonight.”

Edward met Hal’s eyes in the faint light. Fear shot through them. Edward squeezed his shoulder in reassurance as Thomas barked orders. His raspy tones moved back towards the castle.

Fifteen yards to the cover of the woods. They would never make it if the archers were alerted. Edward looked around. Pulling his knife out, he hacked away at the vines on the wall until a length came loose. “Cover yourself,” he mouthed. Hal obliged, transforming into a leafy bush. With another yank, more vines ripped from the stone and Edward dressed similarly.

Footsteps approached overhead. Edward pulled Hal against the wall and waited for the steps to fall away. Tugging Hal’s arm, he began to creep down the hill, keeping as low to the earth as possible.

“What’s that?” A guard questioned. Edward and Hal froze.

“Where?”

“Just there.”

“That’s a bush, you knave.”

Hearing the clinking of their chainmail retreat, Edward motioned to Hal, and they crept slowly to the wood’s edge. Neither dared to stand until they had passed several trees, and the undergrowth thickened. Edward could still make out the castle, illuminated by countless torches, as the garrison searched every inch of the structure. Archers lined up along the wall, bows at the ready.

“Loose!” A guard boomed.

“Run!”

The men tumbled through the trees as arrows clattered against branches and fell around them. Edward slipped, landing with a thud on his backside before sliding down into the stream below.

“My Lord, are you hurt?” Hal cried as he scrambled down the steep bank.

“Nay,” he answered. “You?”

Hal shook his head. The boy had an angry scratch across his right cheek from a wayward branch, but looked no worse for wear.

“The boat is hidden at the end of this stream.”

“Stay down. The ravine will give us some cover.” Another volley of arrows interrupted Edward.

The water was cool, but only a few inches deep, not enough to impede rapid movement. The stream deepened as it opened up onto the larger stream. A willow covered the boat that would deliver them to safety. Hal scrambled to the bow to shove it into the water. Edward tugged the boat from behind, and it slid onto the watery surface.

The boy hopped and began to affix the oars as Edward pushed the vessel into the larger stream. The rapidly receding water tugged the boat towards Bristol Channel. Hal began to row.

“Swap seats with me.”

“You can’t row.”

“I happen to be rather fond of the activity,” Edward quipped. For all the criticism his more rustic pursuits he had received throughout his life, they might now save his life.

Hal gave him an incredulous look, but switched seats with him. Edward gripped the rough oak and began to pull. The combination of his strength and the tidal forces rushed the boat through the water. It took all his focus to navigate the bends at speed. Shouts and barks came from the woods they had so recently departed.

“Careful here, my Lord. The entrance to the channel can be a bit rough. We need to get out to the center, away from the shore, where debris may overturn us.”

Edward nodded, maneuvering the small vessel into the main channel. As though caught in a drain, the boat turned sharply.

“Christ above,” Hal beseeched the Almighty. Edward quickly steadied the vessel and pulled with all his might away from the dangerous bank. In a few minutes, they had made it into the main current. Edward leaned forward to rest as the force of the tide did the work. He could make out the castle against the blanket of stars, but could no longer hear the men in pursuit.

“A narrow escape,” he offered lightly. The boy answered with a wry smile and they allowed the tide to sweep them towards safety.

Paris - 1331

“I’ve got to take a piss,” Hugh d’Audley whispered to Geoffrey de Say. The negotiations on a fresh accord with the French had been dragging out for days.

“I believe the Bishop of Worcester is about to speak,” his protege responded. The lad had barely reached his majority and was eager to do it by the book.

Audley clapped him on the shoulder and whispered. “The excellent Bishop Orleton is smarter than both of us combined. I doubt I shall have much to add.” With that, the elder gentleman stood, nodding a polite bow and excusing himself. A mere forty years, Audley felt as though he was a cat with nine lives, the bulk of which he had already used: one as a typical knight, an exceptional second as a favorite of the late king, a third as a prisoner, a fourth as a rebel, a fifth as a redeemed husband, a sixth in overthrowing a regency, and currently his seventh as an elder statesman. What would the next two hold?

Audley located a wooden door that led outdoors. He need the garderobe, but a break from the droning of Latin and legal talk. Although a second son, Audley hadn’t been bound for the church. His father saw to his training as a knight and secured a place in the royal household and that is when the trouble began. The call for influence had been strong, the love of a king and then a good woman. Maggie, bless her. What she did all day while he was at meetings, Heaven knew. She had only been to Paris once before, and in his company. They were starstruck teens, enraptured with the glamour of Paris and a court on the move.

Audley shook his head. The past pained him, plagued him. The years of imprisonment and separation from Maggie. Then his one-lover’s death at Berkeley. They had attended Edward’s funeral in the final month of 1327 before retreating to Tonbridge for the festive season. Audley never believed that he had died of sickness. No, Mortimer likely strangled him for his own advantage. Fresh anger shot through his body, his pulse throbbing in his neck. There were rumors… Kent believed them and died for them. Chancellor Melton had not given up hope, but Audley could never allow himself to believe in second chances.

Giggles erupted behind him. He glanced at a passel of French ladies and rolled his eyes. The outdoors was supposed to afford a break from the tedium of court. Audley needed exercise, and the confines of the gardens wouldn’t allow him to stretch his legs properly. Nodding at the guard, Audley slipped out.

The towers of Notre Dame soared over the Île de la Cité. A walk around the cathedral would fit the bill. He inhaled the brackish smell of the Seine and headed up the street. Paris teemed with life; people abounded everywhere one looked. Audley had never been comfortable with crowds and peeled down a narrow close. A handful of people stood in the alley. Audley leaned his forearm against the cold stone wall and let out a sigh. A hulking man in a dark grey hood glanced his way. His sapphire eyes held his gaze for a few seconds before looking away.

Recognition hit Audley like a tidal bore. “Edward!” he cried.

The man glanced up, fear laced across his face, and then tore down the street. Without thinking, Audley pursued him. The cobblestones were slick from an early rain, but the sun shone strongly catching a tell-tale golden wave that had escaped from the man’s hood. It had to be the late king.

“Edward! Waiȝt!” Audley desperately called out. The refugee king to pause, blanch, and take off again, sending a stack of crates clattering across the street. The merchant and his wife scrambled to pick them up, but Audley pushed through them, cursing. He had never been able to compete with Edward physically. He was decently built, but lacked both the power and speed of the king.

The bells of Notre Dame rang out. Parisians began to fill the streets like mice escaping a barn fire. Edward paused in the throng and looked back at his one-time beloved. He held up a hand in acknowledgement as a single tear slid down his cheek. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“God’s bones!” Audley cried. A stern-looking French woman near him made the sign of the cross. Audley pushed forward, trying to locate Edward in the mass, but the search was futile.

“Audley!” Geoffrey’s voice broke through the crowd. “Where have you been? Christ, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Audley grabbed the younger man by the shoulders. “I must get a message to the king.”

“In London?” He queried.

“Of course, where else would the king be?” Audley deflected, though he wondered where Edward was headed next.