Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

Huddle the painter, although aloof from these squabbles, presented problems of his own. He was having some difficulty in painting a convincing hell’s mouth. The front of the cart must be raised, Father,’ he insisted, ‘so that when the damned go through the mouth of hell, they disappear downwards.’

Athelstan threw his quill down on to the table.

‘What we need, Bonaventure,’ he declared, ‘is Sir John Cranston. He has agreed that his twin sons, the little poppets, can stagger about as cherubims and Sir John would make a marvellous Satan.’

Athelstan paused and stared up at the blackened timbered ceiling. Cranston! Athelstan had visited him only three days ago, had sat in his huge kitchen while the two poppets chased around, shrieking with laughter. They had hung on to the tails of the great Irish wolfhounds Cranston had, in a fit of generosity, taken into his house. Despite the uproar, the coroner had been in good spirits. He was involved in the minutiae of city government, though he had issued a dire prophecy, aided by generous cups of claret, that some dreadful homicide, some bloody affray, would soon be upon them. Athelstan could only agree; fife had been rather quiet and sweet since he and Sir John had been involved in the business of the Guildhall some months previously.

Athelstan warmed his fingers in front of the fire. He was glad winter was approaching. The harvest had been good. The price of corn and bread had fallen, easing some of the seething discontent in the city. The prospect of revolt had receded, though Athelstan knew it was just hiding, like seeds in the ground, waiting to sprout. Athelstan sighed, he could only hope, pray and do his best.

‘Come on, Bonaventure,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat.’

He took two large bowls from the shelf over the fireplace, ladled into them hot, steaming dollops of oatmeal and took them to the buttery. Following Benedicta’s instructions, he sprinkled each bowl with cinnamon and sugar and went back into the kitchen. One bowl was placed before the hearth for the ever-hungry cat. Athelstan blessed himself and Bonaventure, took up his horn spoon and began to eat the nourishing, boiling-hot oatmeal. He had finished his bowl, or was letting Bonaventure do it for him, when he heard the clamour outside – the sound of running footsteps and a voice screaming, ‘Sanctuary, Christ have mercy!’

Athelstan hurried out of his house and round to the front of the church. A young man, white-faced, eyes staring under a shock of blond hair, gripped the great iron ring of the church door.

‘Sanctuary, Father!’ the man gasped. ‘Father, I claim sanctuary! In the name of God and his Church!’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Murder!’ the young man replied. ‘But, Father, I am innocent!’

The priest studied the man carefully: his thick, serge jerkin, hose of bottle-green wool and leather boots were all coated in muck and ordure.

‘Father!’ the man pleaded. They’ll kill me!’

Athelstan heard the sound of running footsteps and the faint cries of pursuit further up the alleyway. He took out his keys and unlocked the door. The fugitive dashed up the darkened nave and through the new rood screen carved and erected by Huddle. He clung to the corner of the altar and once again shouted.

‘I seek sanctuary! I seek sanctuary!’

Athelstan, followed by an ever-inquisitive Bonaventure, walked up after him. The man now sat with his back to the altar, legs out, fighting for breath as he wiped his sweat-soaked face on the sleeve of his jerkin.

‘I claim sanctuary!’ he gasped.

‘Then, by the law of the Church, you have it!’ Athelstan replied softly.

He turned at the clamour behind him. A cluster of dark figures, armed with staves and swords, stood just inside the church.

‘Stay there,’ Athelstan called. He went out through the rood screen. ‘What do you want?’

‘We seek the murderer, the assassin, Nicholas Ashby,’ a voice growled.

‘This is God’s house,’ Athelstan replied, coming forward. ‘Master Ashby has claimed sanctuary and I have given it according to canon law and the custom of the land.’

‘Bugger that!’ the voice replied.

The figures walked up the nave. Athelstan hid his own panic and stood his ground. The group, wearing the stained red and white livery of some lord, were led by a burly, bewhiskered man. They advanced threateningly towards him, swords drawn, staves in their hands. Athelstan studied their buff jerkins, tight hose, protuberant codpieces, the sword and dagger sheaths hanging on their belts and the way they trailed their cloaks. He recognised them as bully-boys, the hired thugs of some powerful lord. He held a hand up and they stopped only yards away.

‘If you go any further,’ he said quietly, ‘you have broken not only man’s law but God’s. You are already committing sacrilege’ – he pointed to the drawn swords – ‘by coming into God’s house with such weapons.’

The leader stepped forward, sheathing his sword, as to Athelstan’s relief, did the rest.

‘What’s your name?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Mind your own business!’

‘Very well, Master Mind-my-own-business,’ Athelstan continued. ‘If you don’t leave this church, I’ll consider you excommunicated on the spot. Felons, condemned to hell fire.’ Athelstan glimpsed the sullen, arrogant faces of the others. He was pleased to see some of them show a flicker of fear.

‘Come on, Marston,’ one of them muttered to the leader. ‘Let the little turd hide behind the skirts of a priest! He’ll have to leave some time!’

Marston was full of bravado. He walked slowly forward, hands on hips, and pushed his face close to Athelstan’s.

‘We could kick the shit out of you!’ he hissed. ‘Drag that little turd out, kill him and deny anything happened!’

Athelstan stared coolly back, even though his stomach was heaving. He was tempted to quote Cranston’s name, for he didn’t like the smell of sour sweat and stale perfume that came from this bully. He prayed Watkin the dung-collector or Pike the ditcher would make an appearance. Then he smiled, remembering that God helped those who helped themselves.

‘Stay there,’ he commanded. Turning, he walked back through the rood screen.

‘Oh, please don’t!’ Ashby whispered. They’ll kill me!’

Athelstan picked up the heavy bronze cross from the altar. He winked at Ashby and walked down the nave carrying the cross before him. The smirk faded from Marston’s face.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Well,’ Athelstan answered him, ‘first, I am going to excommunicate you with this crucifix. Then, if you come any closer, I’m going to use it to crack you on the noddle!’

Marston drew both sword and dagger. ‘Come on!’ he hissed. Try it!’

‘Now, now, my buckos! Lovely lads all!’

Sir John Cranston, swathed in his great military cloak, swept up the nave through the group, knocking them like ninepins left and right. He shoved Marston aside, stood by Athelstan and lifted his wineskin to his mouth. He smacked his lips as the wine disappeared down his throat. Marston and the others stepped back.

‘Who are you, you big fat turd?’ Marston asked. His sword and dagger came up.

Cranston, his arms folded across his chest, walked slowly towards him. ‘Who am I?’ he whispered in a sweet, almost girlish voice.

Marston looked puzzled – but only briefly, for Cranston hit him full in the face. His large, ham fist crashed into the man’s nose and sent him sprawling back among his companions, blood spurting out, drenching moustache, beard and the front of his jerkin. Marston wiped his face, looked at the blood and, roaring with rage, lunged at Sir John. The fat coroner, moving as nimbly as a dancer, simply advanced towards him, stepped quickly aside and stuck out one fat leg. Marston went flat on his face, sword and dagger spinning from his hands. The coroner, tut-tutting under his breath, picked the man up by his greasy black hair, jerked his head back, marched him along the nave and flung him down the steps of the porch. Then he turned to the others.