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.