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who had increased the money given by the bishop to the church almost six-fold.
    What would he be remembered for? he wondered. Perhaps for his gifts to the church. Better that he be remembered for that than for his time as Treasurer. His efforts to improve the education of so many would be a good legacy, but how many would recall that effort after his death? That was the sort of thing that the individuals would remember, not the majority. The majority, he sighed, would only remember his taking their money, and would naturally assume that he had taken it for his own purse, not seeing the new cathedral as it rose about them. But that was the way of men and there was little he could do about it.
    Ach! There was no reason for him to brood. He was like an old hen, squatting here alone in his chapel. There was work to be done, and he should carry on with it.
    He rose stiffly to his feet, massaging his left leg where the knee joint appeared to be growing ever more reluctant to unbend, and after making his obeisance, walked from the chapel and back into his room. His steward was not in the room, so Bishop Walter hobbled to the sideboard and poured himself a large goblet of strong red wine. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he collapsed in his comfortable little chair, and grunted with satisfaction.
    It was then that he saw how the pile of documents was disordered. There was a lump in one corner, and it made him frown. Setting his goblet down, he reached across. Moving theparchments, he found himself staring at a little purse. A plain, cream-coloured purse, made of some soft skin, and with a curious dark stain that marred the outer edge. He took it up. It was extraordinarily light, and clearly held no money. Intrigued, he pulled the drawstring open and peeped inside. There was a small scrap of parchment, and he felt his eyebrows rise when he saw that there was writing on it.
    He took it out and read it, then felt his scalp crawl, and the flesh of his skull tighten, as he absorbed the vile message.
    Tuesday, morrow of the Feast of St Sebastian
*

Furnshill
    Sir Baldwin de Furnshill stalked from his house and stood a moment, snuffing the early morning air.
    It was his daily custom to walk to the pasture and practise with his sword. The idea of training, constantly improving his skills, was ingrained from his days in the Holy Land, where he had joined the
Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon
– the Knights Templar.
    Now approaching his middle fifties, there were few men of his age who could compare with him in speed or strength. Other, younger men might be able to dispute with him, but he was confident that his wiliness would protect him in a fight against a more powerful opponent. He had fought often enough. There were wounds all over his body, from knives, from swords, and from crossbow bolts – and he had survived all. The most obvious was the scar at his cheek, which ran down to the thin beard that followed the line of his jaw. It was peppered with grey now, but his hair was gradually fading entirely. It was only a few years ago that he had found the first white strays, and now the whole of his scalp looked like a snowed hillside. There was dark beneath, but white overlaid all.
    Of course, he was not remotely vain, but it was still a slight shock to realise that he was growing old. He didn’t feel it.
    His house was quiet still, this early, a thin smoke rising from the fire. Inside, he knew, his wife would be preparing food with their maidservant, while a second helped his children out of their beds. Edgar, his servant for so many years, would be outside with a groom, feeding and petting the horses. It was, Baldwin considered, an idyllic scene. One worth keeping, one worth protecting. And that was why he must practise. To make sure that it remained like that: safe and serene in this world of passion and blood. This world which appeared to be falling apart so quickly.
    That thought was enough to give him the