Angel of Death

pageant, a defender of the Church's right to grow wealthy but pay nothing. Edward disliked the man, a born conniver, who hid his political ambitions behind the intricacies of Canon Law, scriptural quotations and, if these failed, appeals to Rome. Edward should have drawn comfort from his great barons but these too he did not trust. The burly Bigod, Earl of Norfolk and Marshal of his armies: Edward had once respected the man but now, looking sideways, he glimpsed Bigod's puffy, pig-like features, a man, Edward thought, prepared to go to war and fight his enemies as long as it brought great profits to his own coffers. Beside him sat Bohun, Earl of Hereford, a thin weasel-like man with a loud voice and a brain which Edward privately considered no bigger than a bead. He would go where Norfolk led.
    The only men Edward did trust were behind him, the clever clerks and lawyers who aided and assisted him in his government of the country. The chief of these, Edward's Senior Clerk of the Chancery and Keeper of the Secret Seal, Hugh Corbett, stirred restlessly on the gouged wooden stool he had been given to squat upon throughout this long and lengthy service. Corbett felt guilty. He loved the mass but hated these solemn occasions when Christ and his saints were hidden by the panoply and rituals of the church. Corbett stretched his legs and looked around. Beside him, his servant Ranulf wiped his snotty nose on his sleeve and, for almost the hundredth time since the service began, attempted to clear his throat of phlegm. Corbett glared at him. He knew Ranulf was ill with a slight fever, but he also suspected his servant took great glee in reminding Corbett of how ill he actually was.
    The clerk, looking round the huge, muscular frame of his king, stared up across the sanctuary. The altar was a pool of light; priests, bishops, abbots, – the lay servers of the cathedral, the whole retinue of this marvellous edifice, all in attendance now concentrated on celebrating High Mass. The choir's paean of praise eventually ended and the reedy, strident voice of Walter de Montfort began the solemn, long prayer of the Consecration. Corbett curbed his impatience. He knew the service was only a charade; once it was finished the real politics would begin. Edward of England needed money; he wanted treasure to fight Philip of France abroad and crush the rebels in Scotland. He had taxed his people and his merchants; sold privileges and concessions in order to fill his war chests but now it was the turn of the Church.
    To assist him, Edward had gathered his parliament, or virtually all of it, into one sweaty mass in this cathedral. They would hear mass, make reparation with God, take the sacrament and give each other the kiss of peace. Then the real business would begin. Corbett shifted uneasily on the rough wooden stool and pulled his cloak more firmly round him. It was bitterly cold; January 1299 would, he thought, be remembered by many for the terrible snowstorms which had swept the country. Outside, the snow lay two or three feet deep, whipped up by a savage cold wind which now pierced the cracks in the cathedral doors and whisded along the nave, making the candle-light dance and everyone shiver. Corbett felt guilty for thinking such secular thoughts as the mass swept towards the solemn point of consecration when the celebrant would take the bread and wine and utter the sacred words, transforming them into Christ's body and blood. Corbett quietly struck his breast and murmured 'Miserere, Miserere!' Beside him Ranulf sniffed once again, wiped a runny nose on his jerkin sleeve and looked sideways at Corbett, hoping his master would take note of the fresh insult. Ranulf loved Corbett but would never admit it, relishing every opportunity to stir, excite or alarm this usually serious-minded, rather grave clerk.
    Corbett's mind, however, had wandered off, concentrating on the king's major problem: Edward was bankrupt. Two years ago he had debased his coinage, then he had begun to raise taxes in one parliament after another and collectors of the tax on land were sent into the shires and boroughs to claim the king's due. The demand for money was relentless: Edward was at war with France, attempting to save the English Duchy of Aquitaine from Philip IV's acquisitive clutches. Moreover, the King had recently put down a serious revolt in South Wales and only a year ago he had sacked Berwick and brought Balliol and others to their knees. Yet the rebellion