The Bishop Must Die by Michael Jecks Page A

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 willallow 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, andsaid, ‘Steward, you know my uncle as well as any man alive. You haven’t seen him showing alarm recently, have you?’
    ‘No. Should I have?’
    William shook his head quickly, but then grimaced. ‘You see, I saw him reading a note that upset him last night.’
    ‘That’s not unnatural. Your uncle has many communications from all over the diocese and the rest of the kingdom – and some are bound to be of a serious nature. He is an important man, you know that.’
    ‘Yes – and yet he has never concealed anything from me