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I shared a girl with Pellet, the guard who was killed, so I asked Ockle if I could arrange his funeral. The man went pale with fury. He told me to mind my own business as Mortimer had ordered Pellet’s body to be kept in spirits for transportation back to his family in Bordeaux.”
    “Wasn’t that rather generous treatment for a Gascon mercenary?”
    Novile shrugged. “So I thought. But Guerney said that the Gascon had ‘connections.’ ”
    “Was the body sent?”
    “I don’t know,” Novile replied. “Ockle and Guerney increased their vigilance after Dunheved’s attack. I don’t really know what happened to Pellet’s body. Everything was so confused, hidden in a mist of secrecy. But I think it was sent back.”
    “What happened to the old woman who had been brought in to dress the corpse?” I asked. Novile said he didn’t know. He remembered Guerney bringing her to the castle and that was all. She probably disappeared, he added, once she had done her task and been suitably rewarded.
    He then lapsed into a filthy diatribe against Mortimer and Isabella, who had brought such dishonour to the Berkeley name. I let him ramble on as I analysed the information both he and his master had given. There were a number of facts I could pursue further. What became of the fighting monk Dunheved and his fellow conspirators? And why was Edward II’s corpse dressed by an old woman and not by court physicians?
    I was still pondering on these problems when we entered Gloucester. We passed through streets clogged with filthy mush, wary of the snow which cascaded from the sloping roofs. The city, so dependent on the surrounding countryside, was quiet. The streets were deserted except for the occasional, dirty beggar. We slowly made our way to the cathedral, whose magnificent spire must be the pride and glory of the countryside. We left our horses in the cathedral forecourt and walked through the icy slush to the great door. Just as I was about to enter, Novile tugged at my sleeve and pointed back to the middle of the great, empty square.
    “There,” he exclaimed, “right there! That’s where they put the king’s corpse.”
    “Did you see it?”
    Novile nodded. “It was laid out in a great coffin, resting on trestles covered with black velvet cloths. The body was dressed in a white shroud and the head covered with a wimple like that of a nun.”
    “You recognized him as King Edward?”
    “Of course,” Novile jibed. “His face was shaven but I had seen Edward on the few occasions he had visited Berkeley, before his wife started to play the two-backed beast with Mortimer. Why?” he added abruptly. “Who else could it have been? Don’t forget the corpse was also seen by Edward II’s family and leading courtiers.” I hastened to explain that Mortimer’s ruffians could have so ill-treated the king that they might have substituted his corpse with another. Novile laughed outright and, shaking his head with amusement, led me by the arm into the cathedral.
    We walked up the main aisle, genuflected to the high altar and turned left towards the decorated tabernacle of Edward II’s tomb. It is truly magnificent. On a huge white slab hewn out of pure marble rests a life-like effigy of the murdered king, resplendent in marble robes and crown. Above this is an intricately carved canopy of stone, supported by slim pillars which allow the visitors to view but not touch the beautiful effigy. Novile explained that the tomb was erected by the king’s son. As I studied it, I suddenly realized that there was something further amiss. All English kings are buried at Westminster so why had Edward II been buried here? Because he had been deposed? Or simply out of convenience? I remembered the chronicle of St Paul had maintained that no church, except Gloucester, was willing to accept the royal corpse, for fear of offending Mortimer. I put this to Novile, who stoutly denied it. He remembered a monk from Westminster coming to Berkeley to