For a few days he pondered and then he received another visit from the Friar.

‘I have had a message from the Pope, my lord Earl,’ he said. ‘He has commanded me to tell you that he wishes the King to be rescued from Corfe Castle.’

‘Then the Pope believes this story.’

‘It is no story, my lord. Your brother lies in Corfe Castle, a prisoner of Mortimer. There are plans to remove him altogether. This is what the Pope fears will happen and he has commanded me to put this matter to you and to beg you not to delay.’

The Earl was thoughtful.

‘First,’ he said, ‘I must write a letter to my brother.’

‘That would be an excellent plan,’ replied the Friar. ‘If you will tell him that you are his friend as well as his brother and will rouse others to his aid. If you will tell him that you are determined to expose the wickedness of Roger de Mortimer you will put new hope into the King, my lord. Aye, and Heaven will praise you, as the Pope implies, for what you have done.’

Edmund glowed with enthusiasm.

He would write immediately and the Friar should take the letter to Corfe. Could he be sure of getting it into the hands of the King? Indeed he could. The Governor would not be averse to passing on a letter.

Kent wrote at great length and indiscretion, explaining that he was at his brother’s service and would raise an army to fight for him and against his enemies. He could, if he wished, be set back on the throne for it seemed as though he had given it up under duress.

The Friar took the letter and rode back to his lodging where he discarded his friar’s habit. He would be well rewarded he knew. All had worked out according to their plans. He had the letter which was clear treason against the King if anything ever was. Who would have thought a man in the Earl of Kent’s position would be so easily misled,by a man who happened to bear a faint resemblance to the late King. The Friar set out for Winchester where a Parliament was sitting and Mortimer received him immediately.

He laughed as he read the letter.

‘Well done, erstwhile Friar. Silly Kent has written enough to put a rope round his neck. He has been well deceived.’

‘It was no hard matter, my lord, to deceive him. I never knew a man more eager to fall into a trap.’

‘It will be the last time he shall fall,’ said Mortimer fiercely. ‘I have made up my mind to that. You have done well and shall not be forgotten.’

Now to it, he thought. I will summon the Earl of Kent to Winchester.


* * *

The King and Queen were at Woodstock. They were as devoted as ever and they were especially happy at this time because the Queen was pregnant.

Edward was determined that the utmost care should be taken of her and he said he could trust her to no other than himself and in spite of pressing state matters he would not leave her.

Shortly before, she had been crowned. He had been so proud of her. He often thought how fortunate he had been. How many kings married women with whom they were already in love? How many secured such a woman as Philippa? She was loving, tender and good. His people appreciated her worth as he did. And when she gave him a son ... She had admonished him a little, fearful of course that the child might not be a boy. But although he wanted a boy he would not care so very much if it proved to be a daughter. They were young in love and would have a host of children—many boys among them.

The coronation had not been as splendid as he would have liked. The exchequer was very low and he was beginning to feel very uneasy. His mother and Mortimer were taking too much of money and treasure which was needed for other things. He must examine these matters. He was concerned about his mother, though, and hated to upset her and she could be so easily upset nowadays. Any word of criticism however faint directed at Mortimer and she was ready to fly into one of those moods when she talked incessantly and sometimes not very coherently, and that worried him.

He was at Woodstock to forget such matters. He and Philippa could walk together and he could cosset her and they could talk of the baby which was due in June.

Messengers came from Winchester. There were alarming reports of treason, and his uncle the Earl of Kent was involved.

Oh not seriously, he thought. Uncle Edmund could never be really serious. He thought he was, of course, but he could be so enthusiastic about some plan and a few words could alter the course of his excitement completely. He did not take Uncle Edmund entirely seriously.

He would not go to Winchester. He was not going to leave Philippa. She was very young but then she was strong and so far she had had an easy pregnancy. He wanted to stay here and talk of the coming child for nothing could seem of any importance beside that.

The days were growing warm. Philippa was growing larger. Each day brought the arrival of that blessed infant nearer. Who could think about what was happening at Winchester?


* * *

The Earl of Kent was shown the letter he had written to the dead King. Was it in his handwriting? It was, he answered. There was no point in denying it. He had believed the dead King was alive and indeed had been shown a man in Corfe Castle who greatly resembled him.

‘Did he tell you he was the dead King?’ he was asked. ‘I had no speech with him,’ replied the Earl.

‘Yet you believed he was the dead King and you wrote this letter to him. Do you know that this letter is treason. Do you know that your offers of service were to a man not our King whom you are proposing to set up against our true King ... do you realize, my lord Earl, that this is treason?’

He knew enough to recognize that it was.

He also knew the penalty for treason.

Isabella and Mortimer talked of it when they were alone. ‘You cannot sentence him to death, Mortimer,’ said Isabella. ‘He is the King’s uncle.’

‘I can and I will,’ cried Mortimer. ‘He has written this letter. He has condemned himself to death. He should not complain if the sentence is carried out.’

‘You are forgetting he is royal.’

‘Royal or not he goes to the scaffold. There is none who thinks himself so high that he cannot be brought low.’

‘The King must be told.’

‘My love, do you want to ruin our plan? You know what Edward would do. He would pardon his dear kinsman.’ ‘What then, Mortimer?’

‘Execution,’ replied Mortimer. ‘Immediate execution.’


* * *

They had sentenced him to death and the sentence was to be carried out without delay. They had taken him into the courtroom presided over by the coroner of the royal household, Robert Howel, and he had been clad only in his shirt with a rope about his neck.

He pleaded for mercy. He wished to see the King, he said.

His accusers regarded him coldly. It was too late to think of repentance, they told him. He was a traitor to the King; he had committed treason; he had tried to arouse others to share his disloyalty; he had planned to raise an army against the King. What did it matter if he were closely related to the King? He was a traitor and deserved his punishment the more for being royal.

On Mortimer’s orders he was taken through Winchester to a spot outside the walls. There the axe was awaiting him.

It was early morning for Mortimer had wished the deed to be done before the town was astir. He guessed that the execution of such a well-known man would attract crowds and there might be some to disagree with the verdict.

Half an hour passed and the headsman had not arrived. A messenger came from him. He had run away because he was afraid to do it, he had said, for the Earl of Kent was royal; he would not behead such a person. Who knew he might be blamed for it later.

Mortimer who was there in person to witness his enemy’s end was furious.

‘The knave! ‘ he cried. ‘Send for another. Anyone. But let there be no delay. The headsman had an assistant had he not?’

He had, was the answer, but hearing what his superior had done he himself had acted similarly. He also had decided that he would not take responsibility for beheading a member of the royal family.

Mortimer was fuming with rage. It was as though they were defying him, as though they said: ‘Edward the King would not wish this deed to be done.’ Of course he would not. That was why it had to be done with all speed.

‘Find me a headsman,’ cried Mortimer; and although one was sought none could be found. His knights and squires cast down their eyes lest he should command them to do the deed. He could not do that, for if he did it could be said that one of his men had murdered the Earl of Kent. It must be done by a man whose business was with prisons.

Noon had come and the Earl still lived. He was praying to God, telling himself that this was divine intervention. He was going to be saved because God would allow no one to behead him.

The afternoon wore on and still no one could be found to do the job. Then Mortimer had an idea. ‘Go to the prison,’ he said. ‘Find a man who is condemned to die. Promise him freedom if he will act as headsman to the Earl of Kent.’

That was the end of the quest.

Life was a reward too great to be missed.

At five o’clock on that March day Edmund Earl of Kent laid his head on a block and that head was severed from his body.


* * *

The King was at Woodstock when he heard the news.

He could not believe it. His own uncle. To have been executed without a word to him!