The Bishop Must Die by Michael Jecks

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 takenaway 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 allabout 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