Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

His brother James would be able to protect him there.

Bishop’s Palace, Exeter

Pulling up the collar of his tunic and drawing his cloak tighter about him, John de Padington opened the door and made his way to the bakery at the side of the cathedral. It was his usual morning task, to walk the short distance to fetch bread for his master’s breakfast. Bishop Walter II was never particularly fussy about his food, especially his first meal of the day. Something plain, but filling, was all he asked. Cold meat, a little bread, some cheese and wine was enough.

Other men were much more demanding, asking for strongly flavoured dishes with sauces, and sweetmeats afterwards, but the bishop had a strong constitution even now in his six-and-sixtieth year, and John was sure that a large part of that was due to his punishing schedule of work and his tendency to avoid the richer foods, as much as it was his dislike of too much strong drink. He would generally only drink two pints of wine in a day, along with perhaps a quart of ale at lunch.

John de Padington had been steward to the bishop for more years now than he cared to remember. They had grown old together, both of them grey now, and although they had had their arguments in the past (which master and servant never found cause for dispute over the years?), John felt he knew his master as well as, or better than, anyone else did.

All the canons and priests were terrified of their powerful lord. Stapledon had been so long at the very centre of English political life, ruling the Treasury with a rod of red-hot iron, that many feared a word spoken out of turn could lead to their being taken away by officers of the King — or, worse, men under the orders of Sir Hugh le Despenser. Those taken by his men tended to disappear for ever.

The cemetery area was a mess, John thought, as he crossed in front of the cloisters on his way to the north tower where the bakery lay. Horses wandered about the grass, dogs bickered and snapped, and men were playing camp-ball near the west door, desultorily kicking their pig’s bladder about to the risk of all who walked past. John would have remonstrated, but two of the men looked over-aggressive, and John was not one to provoke a fight when such an action could be avoided.

Children played chase amongst the hillocks of newly dug earth. One earned a roar from beneath the soil: a wheeled barrow stood near a hole in the ground, from which the fosser’s head protruded, and he bellowed at the boys until they ran away. The fosser then returned to his digging, occasionally flinging a skull or other bones into a small pile ready for moving to the charnel chapel.

There was an appalling amount of rubbish here in the Close. The fish market that prevailed near the Broad Gate was not open today, but the debris from the previous market remained. The area reeked of old fish, from the piles of fish heads and guts, a sight that was not improved by the cats prowling around, all searching for a tidbit or the chance to spring upon a rat as it gorged itself.

Nor was the mess all the fault of the secular. Much was the responsibility of the cathedral itself, as the rebuilding works continued. Rubble lay about, with old timbers poking out amid the masonry. While stoneworkers chipped and hammered, there was as much noise from the carpenters with their hammers and saws, and over all, the bellowing of the master mason and his staff, all demanding greater efforts from the host of workers who scurried about at the foot of the building site like so many ants.

It was a shame, John reckoned, that the place was in such a state of chaos. He would have liked to have seen it as it was or as it would become, but just now the larch scaffolding was still all about the nave. The quire had been rebuilt already, but now the walls of the old nave had been razed and were gradually beginning to re-form. However, it would be many years before the cathedral was completed. Neither he nor Bishop Walter would ever see it finished — that would be another thirty years or more.

The bakery was popular at this time of day. Carpenters, masons, priests, servants of all types, congregated at the door, some waiting patiently in line while others fretted, especially the novices and annuellars who stood lowest in the priestly orders. John himself was able to ignore the queues and march to the front, nodding to the chief baker and taking the two paindemaigne loaves of the highest quality that were waiting for the bishop.

William Walle was there too, and greeted John. ‘Good morning, steward.’

‘Not that it’ll remain that way for long,’ John said, nodding westwards towards darkening clouds.

‘Aye, well, there’s always a storm brewing somewhere,’ William said easily.

The squire was a tall, gangling young man, and the steward was as fond of him as he could be. Walle was a generous-hearted fellow, kindly and polite to all in the cathedral, even though he was the bishop’s nephew and need not strain himself. There were some who were born into positions of authority, John knew, who would instantly take on the mantle of arrogance and rudeness; others would treat all as equals. William fell into this second category.

‘There appear to be more storms than usual this year,’ John said as they returned to the palace. He did not need to explain. A grim mood lay over the entire country. The king’s dispute with his wife was known to all, and a French-funded invasion was cause for terror.

‘Aye, well, I believe that the summer could be good and warm, and the harvest better than we’ve seen for many years past,’ William said. ‘You know, good steward, that there is no reason to fear men. If God has decided that we need to be punished, He will allow the French to come. There is nothing we may do, except try to repel them. But no matter what happens, a good harvest will fill our bellies, and that is a thing greatly to be desired.’

‘You say this thing is in God’s hands, but that thing is to be desired, Master William — yet both are in His gift. Neither one more than the other.’

‘True. So let us not worry about them, but instead plan for the worst and hope for the best, eh? I refuse to be alarmed while the weather is holding, and while I have my health and happiness.’

John shook his head at the sight of the squire’s grin. ‘I think it is proof of youthful ignorance that you mistake for optimism. There is nothing to be too cheerful about. Let us wait and see whether matters improve, whether the queen returns willingly to her husband, whether she brings their son with her, whether the French do agree that she should come home to her adopted land, and-’

‘And whether the rain doth fall for all the year and our nation starve once more! Come, steward, you have been eating too much melancholy food. You need the sparkle of some fresh cider in your belly to cheer yourself.’

John chuckled. It was impossible not to like young William. He was always brimful of happiness, and although an older man might bemoan the dire circumstances in which men found themselves, yet it was good to talk to William. He had that sunny disposition that tended to drive away the grim reality of the present.

‘I eat well enough,’ he responded, glancing at his taller companion. ‘I have all the rich, happy food I can manage. It’s the benefit of being your uncle’s steward. I get to finish the dishes he leaves — and he has a small appetite!’

‘That is good. I would hate to think that you were suffering from hunger,’ William teased.

‘Aye.’

They had passed by the building works and were approaching the cloisters. As they drew near, William stopped suddenly, and said, ‘Steward, you know my uncle as well as any man alive. You haven’t seen him showing alarm recently, have you?’