Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘That’s right, monk, we are off to see that one-armed pirate in the Piebald tavern. We are going to have a jug of claret, a dish of fried onions, two of his beef pies, some fresh manchet bread then we’ll come back here and rehearse this bloody play once and for all! And, if there’s any more trouble between God the Father and God the Holy Ghost, I’ll knock their heads together!’ Cranston lumbered to his feet and picked up the demon mask. ‘Do you think it suits me, Brother?’

‘Yes, but don’t show the poppets or they’ll scream.’

‘Oh, I have. They thought it was funny, but the dogs flew under the table. I gave a hell of a fright to that idle bugger, Leif.’ Cranston put the mask on. ‘Come on, let’s frighten old Watkin!’ He swaggered towards the church door.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan called. ‘Perhaps it’s best if you didn’t!’

‘What do you mean, monk?’

‘I am a friar, Sir John, and poor old Watkin has been frightened enough.’

‘Ah, I suppose you are right.’ Cranston’s voice sounded muffled behind the mask. He tugged at the horns but the mask was stuck.

‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Cranston groaned. ‘Brother, the sodding thing won’t come off!’

Athelstan now tugged at the mask but it wouldn’t move. Shaking with laughter, he stepped back.

‘What are you bloody well laughing at?’

‘Sir John, you had best kneel down.’

Cranston obeyed but, pull as he might, all Athelstan got was a stream of filthy curses from Cranston, who claimed his ears were being torn off.

‘There’s nothing for it,’ Athelstan concluded. ‘We’ll have to stop off at Basil the blacksmith’s and see what he can do!’

So the friar gently took Sir John’s hand and led him out of the church. Even as his parishioners scattered, Athelstan knew he was entering the legends of Southwark as the friar who captured a demon and took it to a blacksmith to send it back to hell.