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chapel. His chaplain was not present – he did not have need of the fellow today – and the bishop knelt alone in that quiet chamber, his eyes fixed on the crucifix.
    It was the best way to think, here, abased before God. Here he could empty his mind and concentrate on the problems to hand. And remind himself who he really was.
    There had been a time when he had not thought himself capable of rising in the Church. When he was younger, he had assumed that his brothers, Robert, Richard and Thomas, would be the successful ones, and he, Walter, would remain as a minor chaplain, perhaps a vicar, if he grew fortunate.
    That was why, when he had been young, he had spent so much time looking at others and seeing how he might help them, even if sometimes his motives were called into question. In later years, others complained about him, especially Londoners, because they blamed him for the Eyre of five years ago, when he had been the man behind the court held to investigate all the rights and privileges of the city. However, that was not his doing. Yes, he was the figurehead, the Lord High Treasurer, when the kingdemanded his inquest, but it was not his choice.
    There were many who loathed him. In God’s name, so many! He had made enemies wherever he went, something that sometimes made him regret ever taking a leading position in the realm. But someone had to, and he was sure that at least he would be able to do some good.
    Some might dispute that, no doubt. They would think that his sole aim had been to make money for himself, but they didn’t realise that he took nothing. He was a frugal man, with little need for fripperies. He liked some comforts, it was true, and he had great need of his spectacles, but beyond that, he was not cocooned in gold, swaddled in silver, or laden with tin. Those who criticised were all too keen to suggest that a bishop lived in luxury all his life. Well! They should try covering a diocese like his, and getting around it in order to view all the priests and make sure that they were complying with their duties. They would soon give up any notion of luxurious living.
    Yes, he had enemies, but they were for the most part irrational. London’s mob was one thing, but the others who felt that he had unfairly deprived them of property or chattels had no idea what he was struggling with every day: debt. Massive, incomprehensible debt that would crush a man less determined. He had to grab all the treasure he could, just to maintain the steady flow into the cathedral’s coffers and keep the building works going. For what use would his cathedral be, without the final efforts? The stonemasons wouldn’t remain here without their money. The carpenters, joiners, plumbers, ropemakers and tilers, all would leave in an instant if they couldn’t see their pay or their beer turning up.
    That was his biggest fear. The great church had been adequate two hundred years or more ago, but it had to develop to cope with the growing population of the city. So some fifty years ago, a farsighted bishop had taken the decision to raze and rebuild it, in sections. First to go was the Norman eastern end and, while the building works continued, the canons moved into the middle of the church. Only recently had that part of the church beencompleted, and now the new choir stalls and bishop’s throne had been installed in the new quire, before the workmen turned their efforts to the western part of the building.
    But demolishing a building was almost as expensive as purchasing the new stones, the timbers, the poles for the scaffolding – it was all hideously costly, and there was a constant need for more funds. Bishop Walter
would not
go down in history as the bishop who failed the diocese. He wanted to be known as one of the patrons of the church, and had already chosen the spot where his body would lie when he had died, a position prominently located in the quire behind the high altar. That would be suitable enough for him, the man